Blood and Honour, Iron and Fire
by SoccerTeas
Summary: A story where Joffrey is the (well-liked) protagonist. Go on - scroll past after that!
1. Chapter 1

_Chapter 1: _

_"So long as I am your king, treason shall never go unpunished. Ser Ilyn, bring me his head!"_

"For God's sake!" I cried, "why on Earth did he do that?". My friends look back to where I'm sitting on the bus, half in tears, the other half in rage.

"What's wrong, John? You nearly gave me a heart attack!"

"Joffrey just killed off Ned Stark!" I reply, nearly bawling with the sheer injustice of it.

"Oh, I see. Bummer, ain't it?". Explanation given and accepted, they turn round and talk about how awkward it was when they farted in class, or something along those lines.

They're not wrong – about the killing, that is. Game of Thrones is a pretty deadly book – to me GRRM is like a sadistic gardener, giving all the plants lots of fertiliser, water, and care, before killing off anything that doesn't look right. You always do some "what if?" scenarios to try and make it all seem right in your mind, but it just seems to end up with anyone nice-killed, anyone indifferent-killed, anyone bad-killed, usually just before or after someone good is killed as well.

My current "what if?" is that Sansa didn't tell the Lannisters Eddard's plan. Think about it – the Lannisters wouldn't have enough time to act or buy up the City Watch otherwise, which would mean that the Lannisters would be exiled, Ned Stark would be protector and rule well, and bring up Joffrey to do so as well.

Joffrey.

Now that you look at it, he was the problem, the sub-message in the story of Westeros. He was responsible for the death of Ned Stark and Lady, hell, he even started a war, and could have saved many other lives if he was benign. If Joffrey was good. If Joffrey was kind. If Joffrey was...someone else.

As I went off the bus, deep in thought, it made sense. A potentially very powerful character with an actual idea of good and evil, and who could single-handedly bring peace to the whole of GRRM's massive, monstrous universe, would be the only thing to give a happy ending to the world which thrives on never allowing that to happen.

As I went to bed that night, I thought about this more. How could it be done? The only way it could happen is if someone actually became Joffrey, and of course, how likely was that?

I chuckled as I turned over and tried to sleep. Yep, a fictional character will suddenly turn back (imaginary) time, and turn over a (imaginary) new leaf. These things are incredibly likely, aren't they?

I did finally get to sleep, but I had a very peculiar dream. I dreamt that I was falling, faster and faster, so fast I did not where or when I was. I dreamt that I landed, hard, onto something that wasn't my bed. I couldn't see, or feel, or breathe, stranded in a dream-like state that engulfed me, trapped me.

A shock. It started with a shock, I'm certain. A tiny pressure in the small of my back, rippling slowly across my body, across my being, so slowly it felt like I was in a boat on a peaceful lake. Then after the shock, the pain, it had to be pain. I felt like a thousand spiders were biting me in my face, my head, my mind, my soul-a pain so sharp and focused it was almost sweet, but hot, white-hot, so hot I couldn't think, couldn't even remember. Who was I? I felt like I was cross-eyed-there were two of me, but not the same – I was tall, and I was short, I was...no one. I didn't know. Why? I had to know. Who was I, what was I, what will I be...and what was to come?

I was...human. OK, I knew that. A memory came back, slowly sliding past, but when I looked and reached for it, all I could see was black and white shapes flying across a field.

Not shapes. Letters. Letters that spelt out my name, anything, nothing in particular, but something.

J. One of the letters was J. The next was O. Then F. Then another.

What? Joff-? That wasn't me, I was John, John Lockfield, 14 years and 2 months, friends with all my neighbours, loved my family. I KNEW WHO I WAS!

I reached out, ignoring the spiders. I reached out and grabbed the memory, ripped it apart, then grabbed the spiders, but the spiders weren't there. They were a part of me, of us. Who was that other person? He was the one giving me this pain. I turned around, spiders, now snakes, now swords, biting me, tearing me, but I continued.

I turned, and grabbed that part of me who thought he could make me forget who I was, who _he_ was. I hadn't forgotten. I knew, I knew, I KNEW!

Then, as soon as it had lasted, it stopped, and I woke up, dizzy and sweaty. I looked up and all I could see was darkness, then a light, dim and fuzzy – but now bright, brighter, so bright it outshone everything else. It was beautiful...and gone, and in its place, colours-lovely green, heavenly blue, sweet red. Then feeling. I felt soft things beneath me, hard things on my feet, heavy things on my head. Finally shapes. Clothes, strewn on the floor, rugs, decorated with samite, silk and fur. Objects, lying on the ground. A spilt cup, an unsheathed dagger, a burning candle...

I didn't have these things. All I had was a radio and a bookshelf. Where did all these wonders come from? Suddenly, the heavy thing on my head became a giant stone, crushing me back into the bed, back into sleep. But first, I looked at the candle, through the candle, to the mirror behind, all the way through back to me again. As I went to sleep, only one thought stayed in my head.

Why was Joffrey staring back at me?


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 2:_

_Why was Joffrey staring back at me?_

With these words in my head I fell back to sleep, and luckily, it seemed, so had the spiders and swords, leaving me to rest happily. And why shouldn't I? I had done it. I was the king! I had shot the moon, grabbed the stars, and reached through to this universe.

My chest swelled up so much with pride that I probably looked like a croaking frog holding its breath, but then I woke up, and worries awoke with me, and their teeth were sharp too.

I knew who I was-but what about when I was? It could be the morning of Joffrey's wedding (mine now, though!), and though I would be able to stop Sansa wearing the hair net, Joffrey would already have ruined everything for everyone, so I wouldn't be a great help, and, in fact, I would probably end up dying painfully with everyone spitting on me, shouting "good riddance!".

Surprisingly enough, I did not want my corpse to be spat on.

Again, the first thing I saw when I woke up this time was a shapeless lump, but upon closer observation, it turned out my eyes were not failing at working, but were looking straight into a massive white beard. Who did that remind me of?

As soon, as I thought it, the words were out of my mouth, and a second later my suspicions were confirmed.

"Who yu..? Wha...you wan...?"

"I am Grand Maester Pycelle, your highness. How are you feeling? The fever you had was strong, very strong". He broke off, nodding, reminding me of an old donkey braying its support and shaking its head in delight, or maybe he was still speaking – his voice was barely audible when he started, and his rheumy eyes gave me the impression of immense boredom and/or severe depression.

I was aware that I had just entered this new world, and all I was doing was judging the various stage of rheumatism this old man's decrepit eyes were in. it wasn't pleasant, and whilst he was mumbling about how many times he had cured fevers like this, I cast my gaze around the room, and almost gasped.

The sheer beauty of it was astounding. The paintings on the walls showed skill beyond compare, the weavings of the tapestries and rugs so intricate I couldn't believe this was done by hand. These tapestries were complex, masterful visions of the sunset, castles and knights of old, the colours so bright and wonderful they seemed to leap out of the cloth.

The furniture was exquisite, what had to be mahogany seats and tables, holding up goblets and books engraved with jewels and precious metals. It was beautiful...and all mine now. I smiled gleefully, feeling like a man who has just won the lottery, a Nobel peace prize, and 3 Oscars, all at the same time.

My glee clearly affirmed what Pycelle was saying, as his incoherent mumbles became slightly more audible mutterings, and I turned to him, trying not to look at his eyes, so crusty with eye discharge I wondered if he could see at all, or if he could, would it be through a yellow, sticky haze?

Avoiding these eyes, therefore, I turned to the most interesting thing about him – his beard – thick, snow white, and long, it hung around him, giving him an aura of wisdom. His beard...What was so special about that...?

"Your royal father has been holding off the start of the journey for you for a few hours now".

Journey? What journey? Suddenly it came to me like a crack of lightning-Pycelle's beard was cut off by Shagga before the Battle of the Blackwater, and this "royal father" had to be Robert Baratheon. Joffrey wasn't king yet-there was still peace!

My relief was extreme. Everything was all right-this expedition had to be to Winterfell, the time before anything significant had happened.

Well, now that you think about it, Jon Arryn was dead – which could potentially put things into motion that result in an on-going civil war involving an immense number of betrayals, rapes, tortures and deaths of mostly innocent civilians in the wrong place at the wrong time...but I'm sure that could be averted.

I got up, shakily, and tried to walk. It – by which I mean Joffrey's body – all felt weird, like putting on a sock or shirt backwards, and leaving it on you, itching constantly, for the whole day. As I turned round, slightly awkwardly, I found myself staring into a full-length mirror.

For a moment I thought Joffrey had suddenly appeared in front of me, before I realised that I was Joffrey...and he was me, a worrying thought which did not bode well for my sanity.

It did bode well for my looks though. A tall, handsome teenager stood in front of me, gold hair resting lightly on a face of sharply defined cheekbones and mouth, eyes, green as cut emeralds and sparkling, with (what I hoped at least was) intelligence and joy. Neck, slender and fine, with strong arms and legs to support me. "I like" was the only thought in my brain, although "stop with this self-adoration phase" was another. Thoughts of Borat's catchphrase reminded me of Earth, the small planet I called home, so far away it hurt to think how soon it was since I left it.

_"Aye"_, my heart told me, _"But what arrived in your place?"_

Thinking of potentially having an evil monster in my place was bad, but in all probability Joffrey would be broken by my parents, and get up at 6:00AM the next morning to go to school, with no Sandor Clegane to get him out of it.

It wasn't a great thought though, and I turned away from myself, and back to Pycelle.

"What now, then?", I asked, unaware of what to do, what to say, who to be...

Before the words were out of my mouth I knew they were a mistake. If anyone was aware of how little I knew about life here they would suspect something, and though they could never perceive that someone had just possessed the royal heir, they might think insanity was rooted inside me, and that it would be prudent to hide me away, or even worse.

I shuddered. I had just crossed worlds, and been bitten by spiders, to get here. I wasn't about to leave at the hands of someone with "a kind death" on their mind.

"I mean, what _time _is it now, then?" Barely a second had passed since my blunder, but the seeds of worry had been sown. Was that narrowing of his eye from suspicion or simply from his probable Glaucoma? Was he thinking, wondering, suspecting even now who I was, or wasn't? I didn't know what to say, to think, to even remember. Hell, I couldn't remember anything about this life. My only thoughts in this body, _per se_, were how sexy I was and how repugnant my doctor.

I panicked from how wrong it had all gone, and how quickly, which of course, gave rise to more panic, narrowing my vision and ideas, until only one remained. _"Leave"_, it cried to me, some intrinsic part of my being that hopefully knew what to do...or was it the remnant of Joffrey, placing the last nail on my newly constructed coffin which my action would drive, irreversibly, into the fresh wood of my Westerosi grave?

"The time is past noon, you highness. We must be off to meet with your royal family. Don't worry, your servants packed your items whilst you were ill".

The interjection to my thoughts cut through straight to me, accompanied by the whiney nasal sounds of Pycelle's voice. The information, delivered with the sheer repugnance I felt from the Grand Maester's tones, gave me relief from my worries.

Worries? RELIEF? Who was I, some endangered damsel, wandering through the woods, seeing a rapacious, violent outlaw, crouching with his weapon drawn and blood-lust in his eyes, behind every single rock?

No. That was not I, and I believed that and I knew that and I would make damn sure everyone else I met would as well.

These Westeros people named themselves after the items they sewed on their clothes, but I didn't need a lion, or a wolf, or a kraken to know who I was, and would be.

I didn't need a bloody animal on my breast.

"Let's go then", I told Pycelle, standing up straight, breathing in deeply, examining all my senses I had been given by, or taken from, Joffrey. I found them good, better than before, more than enough to conquer this old, treacherous cretin. "You've kept them waiting long enough. Tell me why I had a lovely sleep for the last few hours and you didn't wake me up? Don't lecture me about how it's my fault, when it was your responsibility. Look at the bloody chain you wear if you forget". It worked, and the old man suddenly became a fish, eyes bugging out and mouth flopping uselessly open and shut.

I turned round and walked out through the door. Luckily for me, it led into a large wardrobe, where I put on a light tunic, long trousers, and boots. There wasn't much in the sense of high-end attire, but what there was fit, was comfortable, and I was content.

"Lead on, then, maester" I called when I came back in.

"Let's go find my sweet family, shall we?"

He walked, or rather, shambled, along, out the door, huffing and puffing like a humanoid sheep chain smoker.

I followed, swaggering, hands through my belt and a smile on my face.

A smile of power, of victory, of glory.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note – thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far, especially CoralElizabeth, who has reviewed twice! Please keep them up – then I'll keep this up!**

**I hope you enjoy this chapter as well as the others.**

**P.S - I just updated this chapter, twice, as I thought the style could be improved. Do you think so too? If so, please tell me - I want to do the best I can for you guys, as you've had naught but positive things for me. Thank you.**

Chapter 3

They were all waiting for me by the gates.

Suddenly, painfully aware of their stares – not all with joy – I stopped my swagger, as it suddenly no longer felt like a victorious movement of a triumphant prince, but instead the waddle of a diarrheic duck, with half its left foot missing. I felt that this simile was so apt I should probably give a good quack whilst I was at it, but I was glad I didn't do it, otherwise I definitely would have gone to the Westeros version of a loony bin, not a very amusing prospect.

None of my new "family" seemed amused either at that moment, and a second later one of them made his appearance known.

"Joffy, what took you so long? We've been waiting for aaaaaages", my new brother Tommen was calling in the young, innocent, hopeful tone he had, drawing the sentence out whilst rolling his eyes. He reminded my of my other siblings just then, so automatically I mad the joke that I would have given any of them.

"Well, I'm here now – so your lives have been brightened up, haven't they?" Tommen seemed unable to deal with half-serious sarcastic banter, and so became silent whilst trying, probably in vain, to work it out.

I noticed that others were rolling their eyes, including my "royal father", who was the next one to complain at me.

"Boy, I've had to stop the whole entire column just to wait for you to wake up from your beauty sleep. What do you have to say for yourself?". I could have blamed Pycelle, but that would have been a very "Joffrey" thing to do, and as such, I didn't play the blame game, instead, the insult game, which was much more fun.

"Held your column up? You could have left 3 days ago, and I would have caught up to you before nightfall...", I said, pausing slowly just to make sure he could understand, before adding, "...walking slowly".

The reaction was instantaneous, although fairly unexpected. My wit, for some unknown reason, seemed to enrage him.

"Are you calling me slow!?". Well, you had to say that he walked straight into it, but at least I found out why he was enraged. However, I hadn't quite meant it that way, so I told him that.

I nodded to the massive royal wagon we would be travelling in. It was made of oak and mahogany, decorated with paint and mosaics, engraved with gold and silver, and pulled by a team of 6 strong white horses, but it would be slow, so slow, not to mention the awful bumping or how often it would get stuck in ditches and mud.

"I was talking about the wagon, actually, but...now that you mention it, there are some similarities – dimensional similarities, that is". I gave him a smile, hoping he wouldn't give me a hammer – to the skull.

King Robert Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, swelled up like a puff fish about to explode, which after a few seconds he did, although it was laughter that came out, not internal organs, which was undoubtedly more pleasant.

"Damn you boy!" he bellowed with a smile, "I don't know where you got that cheek from, but you aren't wrong either. Steward! Get me a larger horse. My son here thinks I'll break its back before we reach Rosby – Hah!" Laughing like a booming drum, he turned away to get on his horse, before realizing he needed a stand to get up. He turned around, glaring at all who dared not to avert their gaze, before climbing up, albeit accompanied by two grooms and a large foot step.

Watching this merry spectacle unfold, I laughed, then pretended to be tying my shoes when the full glare of the king's gaze shone on me, like a rabbit caught by a pair of headlights.

Eventually he managed to get on his horse, and as the tired grooms walked past I called out to one of them. Not sure how to refer to him, I tried the obvious.

"My friend!" I called out. It worked.

"Yes m'lord?"

"Bring me my horse", I said, proud of how I was handling things, until...

"M'lord, beggin' your pardons m'lord, but, m'lord...you killed your last horse when you fell off it...m'lord". The poor boy was petrified, if constant refers to my title were anything to go by.

I should have just gone into the king-sized carriage (pun intended of course), but I had made my bed, and I wouldn't be deterred now.

"That's just a detail, stop being so negative. All you have to do then is get me a new horse...now...go on, run!"

He ran.

However, whilst I was waiting, I heard my name being called from the king of carriages (I should probably stop with these puns now).

"Joffrey, what are you doing? It's time to go. Get in the carriage like a good prince". It was Cersei, of course.

The queen, bedecked in jewels and silk, supported by her Lannister qualities – hair like spun gold falling slowly around her shoulders, eyes green as rich grass, a smile that took the edge off the world...and underneath, fires danced in her eyes, in the corner of her mouth, fires of greed, of desire. Fires that could burn anyone to death if she wanted.

I could name all these burnt corpses, but it would take too long. What I seemed to judge of this woman, of this queen, was danger, nothing more, and certainly not any less. I didn't want to spend any amount of time with her, else I was found out, and be sucked down into the quicksand with a face of beauty and a heart of ice.

"That monstrous thing?" I laughed, trying to shrug her remark off, trying to shrug her gaze off, like it was burning me, recognizing me for who I was – or rather, who I _wasn't_. "I'll stick my head out of the window and under the wheels by nightfall if I'm trapped in that torture device".

"Come on Joffrey, now. Are you all right? You've never acted like this before". She put out her hand to me, as if she could grab me from across the yard and drag me inside.

"There's a time for everything, Mother" I called back, slightly fumbling over the word "mother". It felt weird to say it to this woman, who was someone I definitely did not consider to be my mother, or really someone with human feelings, except hate and passion, the two emotions which composed her, fuelled her, summed her up and would probably destroy her. I had my own ideas about how A Dream of Spring would end, probably with Cersei exiling or executing all her subjects until she had no allies, and only enemies.

Not on my watch, though.

"And now is the time to be a prince" I finished, ending the discussion. I would not be bulled over by this woman - or any.

With that I left her, and as Cersei's mouth pursed into a flat line of disapproval, the groom I had sent for came back, with the horse I asked for, and without the petrified look, which was a definite improvement.

It was a gelding, I found out, chestnut brown with a crown of white above its eyes – deep brown, like melted chocolate. He was a big horse, long of leg and neck, and spirited – he must have come from the royal stables, otherwise someone else would be riding him now. I loved him at first sight, and I hoped he would too – I didn't want to be bucked off in front of everyone.

I took a step back, and charged forward, leaping at the last moment to vault straight onto Comet, as I decided to name him, hoping he would be as fast, as bright and as strong as one, and as a subtle implication that I would be, quite literally, riding a shooting star.

It seemed Comet like me as well, and didn't buck when I leapt on. Instead, he waited till I got the reins from the groom, thanked him for the horse, and neighing, galloped off to the head of the column where all the riders were – and where the Lannister queen was not. It turns out that naming him after a rock hurtling through space was a good idea. He rode like the wind, and I felt power under my legs, power that did not seem to have bounds or limits. He was brilliant.

All too soon, I reached the head riders, and as Comet slowed to a walk, I was called over by one of the riders. In his bright gilded steel, a lion for a helm over a man tall and strong, with bright green eyes under a mane of gold curls, there was no mistaking Ser Jaime Lannister.

"Why, boy, to what do we deserve this honour?", he smiled as his horse edged over, neighing away like the two were sharing a good joke, "aren't you supposed to be in the carriage with the rest of the royal family? The journey will be long, and arduous. Wouldn't your highness prefer to rest his head?". The rest of the riders joined in with the joke Jaime and his horse had enjoyed, and laughed.

"Sadly not", I replied, courteous enough to the man who called me nephew, "I was actually wondering if you were able to help me in some way, but it seems you are incapable of more than a light jape" – I nearly forgot in this world they used strange vocabulary, as well as becoming an adult when they reach an age of double digits, and that killing someone isn't actually considered bad as long as the corpse in question is not anyone significant.

The joke the head of the column previously found funny was now stale, and not even the Kingslayer's horse was neighing anymore.

"I see" I remarked sadly, shaking my head and turning around. I had barely turned 90 degrees before I heard his shout.

"Fine, then, boy, what is it you want?" I turned back slowly, and enjoyed the once-in-a-lifetime view of a lack of arrogance on his face.

"You to teach me how to fight". Suddenly the mirth came back into his face like it had been pumped in. He smiled, giving me a look of his pearly white teeth. I nearly gnashed mine, wanting to break those arrogant pearls and see how well he could breathe with them halfway down his throat. I wanted to turn, and avoid this walking confidence-made-flesh for the rest of the journey, but I knew I couldn't, wouldn't, not until I could fight, until I could better this man.

I stared into his green eyes, unsmiling, immovable, unstoppable, until the fires of his laughs were extinguished. I asked again, to which he replied:

"Why? There will be bruises beyond count, and besides, you have no need of fighting knowledge when you have your sworn knights, and in the future, your kingsguard".

"No need? That's what Aerys thought". I paused, and saw how hard my comment hit home. "I am not Aerys, _uncle_", putting definite emphasis on the final word.

The combination of reminding Jaime about his failure and a subtle remark about his relation to me was enough. He agreed to teach me, and that night, after the camp had been set up, we fought, or rather, he fought and I tried to.

He was right. There were bruises, all mortal if we were using anything more than blunted swords, and for too many to want to count. It didn't get any better from then on. The day after, the bottom half of my body hurt from hours in the saddle, and the other half ached from what felt like the same in the sparring yard, but I kept it up. I would reach Winterfell, and not let Robb Stark or Jon Snow get the better of me. I would be a king, and would fight like one – a proper one, not a sniveling coward relying on those stronger. I would be the stronger.

The bruises and the aches kept coming, kept biting, kept reminding me of what I had yet to do, but each night, there were less of them, until the day I could ride all day, hunting with the king at every stop, and slash and parry and cut and thrust and BACK and duck with the Kingslayer until the darkness and fatigue broke us up, heaving with the effort of the fight and sweating like fat smokers, running a marathon in the desert.

That was the day I felt like a prince, like a man deserving of the crown in this world, like I was finally ready for something, for anything, for anybody. That was the day I had been in Westeros for a month.

That was the day we reached Winterfell.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's note, unsurprisingly, otherwise it wouldn't be in bold or before I started the chapter. I'm rambling. So, I'm sorry for not updating, but I'll try my best for the future. Thanks to all those who read and review, and a special thanks go to Danny McDingles and King James10158, who hold a tied second on the league table with two reviews. To everyone else, the league is waiting for more entries...**

**So, finally:**

_Chapter 4_

_That was the day we reached Winterfell_

The first thing I felt, apart from a sense of satisfaction and a feeling of content, was the cold. It bit through me, like an angry bulldog with a hunk of meat. I finally understood what the other riders in the column had meant by "the lazy wind" – it couldn't be bothered to go around you, so instead went through you. I was glad I was wearing some furs, although I couldn't help but think that my ski jacket at home was better than half my bodyweight in animal hair.

The next thing I felt was a brief sense of apprehension. How would this turn out? According to Jon Snow, Joffrey looked like a pampered blonde girl. How was I supposed to make friends with someone who thought I looked like my mother?

Then I shrugged it off. The last month had not been easy on my body, and my body was now home to more scars, muscle, and calluses, and a lot less fat – a month of riding and fighting could do that to anyone, I mused.

"Whatever will be will be", I muttered, as I gazed up at the castle of the North.

And what a castle it was! My experience of castles was of ones in ruin, normally with no roof, or walls, and certainly not smoke and shouts coming out of the top of it. Winterfell was a hub of life, of activity...and of history, which made me feel sad, in a way, that the wonder I saw here, no one else currently alive back on Earth could feel.

My wistful melancholy was interrupted by the giant wheelhouse trying to get through the gate of Winterfell.

It looked like a giant jewelled battering ram, going forwards, getting stuck, moving slowly backwards, before ramming straight at the gate again, like two characters in a comedy sketch.

Eventually the drivers realised that a massive mobile home could not pass through an arch specifically built to prevent massive objects passing through, and the royal family got out of the carriage, walking over to where all the Stark household had assembled, and where we were about to.

Robert Baratheon jumped out of the carriage and charged up to Lord Stark, in the same manner he would charge to the dinner table in the evenings. Luckily, he didn't eat Eddard Stark, instead embracing him and then Lady Stark. After the queen raised her hand for Eddard to kiss, it was my turn to greet him, inclining my head and shaking his hand, before turning and kissing the hand of Lady Stark. I hadn't yet grown used to my new body, and was still just as surprised to find that I towered over Catelyn Stark, and was only a few inches shorter than Ned Stark.

Now was the moment I had been dreading, as I turned to the Stark children. Sansa was beautiful, in her soft, smooth, brown furs, whilst Robb looked fierce in his mix of white, brown and black furs, with a dagger at his side. Jon was nowhere to be seen, which was a shame. I would have liked to meet him here as well, but I would find him later. For now I bowed to Sansa, kissing her hand and smiling whilst I told her how nice it was to see her. She blushed and smiled, which was a good result, considering that a month previously I was a 14-year-old going to a boys only school. Score, John!

I turned to Robb Stark, whilst Myrcella was hugging Sansa like they were long lost sisters.

"I'm Joffrey Baratheon, nice to meet you. You can call me "Joffrey" if you want, "Your highness" if you really want – both good to me. Now, where's your man-eating direwolf?". He smiled, telling me that Grey Wind was too dangerous to bring out in front of strangers.

"Dangerous? It's only dangerous if it bites your arm off!"

"Aye, but that's too late for you then". I laughed, and he laughed as well, before turning to kiss the hand of Myrcella. I turned as well, to greet the sweet little Bran and the fierce little Rickon, and I knew I had done well.

* * *

I was watching Bran and Tommen fight in the yard, just like countless others. Bran was destroying Tommen, despite being hampered by his bodyweight in padding. He would definitely make a knight, would young Bran, and I would do my best to help him on his way. He deserved that, at least.

Shifting my look around the yard, I saw Jon Snow and Arya in a small tower overlooking the yard, both staring at me. I raised a hand in greeting, and smiled, gesturing towards the fighting duo. They smiled back – a good sign, especially since it was from the two first people to hate Joffrey in the books.

As I turned back again, I saw Robb standing in front of me, holding two wooden swords.

"Would you like a spar, _your highness_", he said sarcastically, bowing deeply to emphasise the action, which the rest of the yard appreciated, and all began to laugh. I laughed too.

"Only if you promise to go easy on me, my lord" I replied, in a high-pitched voice, emphasising my action with a deep curtsey, to the merriment of all those present.

Robb smiled, and passed me a wooden sword. I called out to the duelling children in the centre of the yard.

"Bran, I'm not sure, but I think my brother would be dead without the padding. Maybe it's time to stop. What do you think, Tommen?" My brother nodded so fast it looked like he was being possessed. They both wobbled out of the yard, bumping into anyone within a few metres, and Robb and I took their places.

"You ready for this?" I called out to him.

"Are you?" he called back.

He ran at me, and the song of swords began.

Robb was fast, I gave him that. I lifted my sword to parry his stroke, before ducking left to avoid his immediate counter-stroke. By Gods, he was good. I would be dead if we were in battle...and had I not been trained by Jaime, who had taught me everything I would need to defeat anyone less than a master swordsman.

"Any person with an arm and a hunk of sharpened metal can slice at someone", he liked to say after a fight, "but it takes more than that to survive being sliced at. Always know your enemy – if you know how they will fight, you will know how to win, and they will lose. Otherwise, if you slice at a man who can parry all day and slice back knowing you cannot block it, you will lose. And you will die". It was a grim message, but I was glad I had learnt it before this fight.

Robb was an instinctive fighter, but since he was young, he was someone who relied on his speed and variety of lightning fast strokes to press or tire the enemy. However, this rhythm could be interrupted by constant moving, forcing him to be on guard and rely on parrying strokes instead of delivering them.

What this meant was, I had to go on the attack.

So I did. I ducked left, and parried Robb's savage swipe to my right side, before launching a counter-strike that would have took his head off.

Had he not moved backwards just before that moment. I stumbled forward, my momentum driving me past Robb with nothing to stop it. Robb lifted his sword, preparing to bring it down on my neck. His sword started down, before his body started down with it.

My "stumble" had put him off-guard, believing the fight at an end. Therefore, he was no watching where my sword had gone, namely into his ankles, sweeping him off his feet. I pivoted on my foot, bringing the tip of my sword onto his neck.

"Do you yield to your new master?" I shouted in a deep voice, whilst smiling at him. His reply was to knock my sword out of the way with his and jump back to his feet. Now was his turn to smile.

"You should ask that yourself" he replied, before slicing at me again, and the song resumed.

This time, he was more careful, giving sidestrokes, overhand strokes, backhand strokes, feints, thrusts, anything you could do with a sword, basically.

What I also did, basically, was to wait, ducking and weaving just inches past his strokes, saving my energy and wasting his. I would need it – the fight had taken a higher tempo, a higher feeling of urgency, of haste. The song was faster, louder, more dangerous, more...beautiful. This was the song of swords, and I revelled in it.

I stopped ducking. Now it was crunch time, hopefully not literally. I moved forward, parrying his strokes before launching a counter-strike of my own, thrusting straight towards his face. Robb barely dodged the stroke, before bringing his sword down at me with all his strength, to cleave me from shoulder to hip. I brought my sword up to parry, but at the last moment, turned it so the sword, instead of stopping, slid past without any of the resistance Robb was expecting, and he fell forward, his sword swinging instead, straight for the ground. I grabbed his collar as he fell, swinging him and my sword around, the former to stop him regaining his feet, and the latter to stop him resuming the fight.

"Now do you yield?" I asked, although he didn't have a choice. His sword had fallen onto the ground, and my sword was at his neck.

"Aye, I yield" he spat out. I lifted him back up, and slapped him on his back.

"Don't worry, Robb. Now at least you'll know that move for if you ever need to fight". He nodded, and slapped my back as well. The yard burst into applause, and I turned to curtsey to Robb, who bowed back. I smiled. I had done something right.

* * *

I smiled to Sansa as I took her arm. It was time for the feast at Winterfell, and by God, was I looking forward to it.

"You have a lovely castle, Sansa, although not as lovely as you", I told her. It was simple, and without doubt clichéd, but it was honest, and I hoped she appreciated it.

She did, if a blush and a "You look lovely as well" was anything to go by, which I hoped fervently it was.

I led her in, and nodded to Jon Snow as I passed, who nodded back. When I reached the head table, I stopped to curtsey to Robb, who laughed, along with all those who had seen our fight. For those who hadn't, there was a tall, blonde person, seemingly unsure of their gender and possibly slightly insane, walking through their hall, and making slightly insulting gestures to their liege lord's son.

They laughed too.

I sat beside Robb and Sansa, and joked with them until the food arrived.

The food...The food was amazing, better than anything I had before. Whole roast pigs and boars were served up, pies and tarts more numerous than the guests, barrels of wine and ale flowing like a torrential flood down the throats of all present. After 20 minutes, the king was drunk, swaying this way and that, like a bloated ship in a storm.

I didn't get drunk, though. I was 14 – the only wine I had drunk was at church, and that tasted awful – stingy priests. So, I remained remarkably clear headed whilst those around me were smiling in various stages of intoxication, from Sansa and Arya being slightly tipsy, to Robert, who had passed out a few minutes before, snoring so loudly he was drowning out the music of the singer at the end of the hall.

The singer...now, that reminded me. That singer was no less than Mance Rayder, King-beyond-the-Wall.

And I fancied a conversation with royalty.

I walked over to him, excusing myself when stepping on the unconscious guests. When I reached him, I didn't beat around the bush.

"Mance, you sneaky wildling". He broke off faster than a part on a child's toy that was made in China, blinking fast.

"H-h-how do you know who I am?" he asked, turning round at me, still shaking.

"Relax, _Your Grace_, your secret's safe with me. Now, stop shaking like a man on his way to the gallows". He stopped, and began to smile.

"How the hell did you know it was me, boy?" I smiled back, and tapped the side of my nose.

"I figured out your secret, you'll have to figure out mine" I told him smugly.

"So, apart from gloating, what do you want with me?" he sat back, calm now, and began to finger the strings on his lute.

"Well, not invading the North would be good, I guess, but we'll cross that bridge when we get to it". He looked amazed, which wasn't surprising. A prince from 500 miles down south had just told him of knowledge that could get him killed ten times over if anyone else knew. I guess that was the definition of the word helpless.

"Aye, but I've eaten of your bread and salt, and Eddard Stark is not one to go back on his word". He smiled, and why shouldn't he? Ned Stark was more like to cut his own arm off rather than besmirch his honour, and everyone knew so.

"Safe...for tonight. What could happen tomorrow? Anyway, there is something I need you to do. Something urgent. Something dangerous. Since you'd be killed anyway if you're caught, it would make sense for you to do this as well".

I leaned over, and whispered my request in his ear.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

The sky was grey when we assembled in the yard.

Cold, dead grey, like an ancient, frozen corpse. Why the king had decided to go for a hunt at this time, I had no idea – but definitely respect. He must have gone to sleep only a few hours before, with half his weight of wine inside himself, but he was up on a horse, and looked like he wouldn't fall off any time soon.

Fall. Hmmm. That reminded me of something. Wait – not something.

Someone.

I couldn't just go off on a hunt – Bran would be paralysed by the time I got back, and that would be a failure on my part, a failure I had originally told myself – forced myself – that I would not let repeat. But how should I go about preventing this horror? We were all about to mount up for the hunt, and any minute we would charge off to spend the whole day looking for a rabbit, or some other animal just as difficult to catch.

I could hardly just walk off, could I? I mean, it would make me look weak, and I probably wouldn't be allowed anyway. Oh, how the riders would laugh if they saw a petulant young man being chastised for cowardice by his father. Jaime most of all.

Wait a second. My god, I was forgetting everything. Jaime wasn't going on the hunt – he was staying back at Winterfell, to push Bran off the tower. I could simply tell Robert that I had something arranged with Jaime. I mean – Jaime could hardly say that he was busy doing…"other things"…

Hehehe. Haha. Ha.

My excuse created, I served it up to Robert, who seemed as if he didn't like the taste of it, but that it wasn't bad enough to refuse, like slightly stale bread.

"You sure? The wolfswood is like no other forest, lad. No hunt like it in Westeros".

"Please", I told him, using my smug face, "chasing rabbits for days is the same – no matter where you go. Fighting, though…that's never the same". Robert shrugged, turned around, sounded the trumpet, and soon the noise of hooves left the yard, leaving only silence, and I.

With the easy part of my job done, I abandoned the yard, and went off to save a cripple…and Cersei and Jaime, both by the latter.

"You can climb that?" I asked, amazed, looking up at the tower.

Bran nodded slowly, as if the word "duh" could be conveyed through a look.

It could.

I had found Bran within a few minutes after searching the godswood, where he was patiently trying to teach Summer – sorry, his "unnamed direwolf" – to fetch a stick. He was not succeeding, for reasons I voiced.

"I thought you would know that a direwolf is no pet" I called out to him.

He looked up shocked. He did not expect to see anyone in the godswood, especially 1) a royal prince 2) who was supposed to be on a hunt, and 3) who was a different religion to the temple he was in – if, of course, you could call a forest a temple.

"He's my pet. There were five direwolves found in the forest, one for each of us – one for me – it's mine". He stroked the direwolf's fur to reinforce the fact.

"I see" was all I had to say, which was bad – somehow I had to distract this boy for half the day, and it seemed he was finished with me after half a minute. Looking to find a topic of interest (and lengthy activity) to him, I spoke the obvious.

"I heard you love to climb – that you're the best in Winterfell. Care to prove it?". He stared at me for a second, a look of excitement crossing his features for once, like a rock appearing from beneath the waves and jutting out proudly.

"Challenge accepted, _your highness_", accompanying the title with a mocking bow. Clearly he had heard everything from the yard the day before. We both smiled, and I knew that if Bran did not become a knight, it would not be because of paralysis. I would not let it happen to this kind, funny boy. Not ever.

A few hours later, and I had become both well acquainted with most of Winterfell and good friends with Bran. He was one of those boys who were full of life, of happiness, and curiosity, and as a result, seemed happy to spend a few hours with me.

The sweetness couldn't last, however. We had climbed everything except the abandoned "tower of doom" – for Bran at least. I wasn't surprised that it was abandoned. The tower looked to be crumbling away, and climbing the tower probably wouldn't improve that fact. Nevertheless, Bran wouldn't be deterred, and whilst I was just standing around, like a lemon, he was halfway up the tower.

Halfway to his doom.

The thought spurred me into action, and I leapt up to climb the tower. I was rewarded with a ripped nail and trouser leg, but I pressed on, hanging off just my fingertips at times, nearly falling off a few times more. It was almost ironic – if I fell, it would be Cersei and Jaime's fault. However, I would be dead from the 30-foot drop, and would not live to see if anyone appreciated the joke.

I continued up. I had the reach on Bran, being taller and stronger, and soon I had drawn level with him from my kamikaze run. When I finally reached the top, I sat down on the ledge and tried to get my breath back.

When I had got it back, Bran was sitting beside me and laughing at how difficult I had found it.

"Come on Joffrey. The tower was barely the size of a wall!"

"A big wall" I replied, moving my arms to try and loosen them.

"Quiet. Can you hear that?". I tried to soften my breathing, but even before I had done that, I knew what I would hear.

"Oh, Jaime". A soft, womanly voice floated out of the tower, along with other…recognisable sounds. I shuddered, and why not? I believe that it is quite awkward to walk in on anyone, _especially_ your family, _especially_ your parents. Luckily for me, Cersei and Jaime filled all criteria.

"Bran? How often do you climb this tower?" I said, softly, as not to disturb the busy neighbours.

"Not very often. It is pretty unstable…but apparently it's been this way for a few centuries". I decided to use my superior age, and hopefully, respect to get him off the tower.

"We had a tower like this in King's Landing. It had stood there since there were still dragons in Westeros, a few centuries ago, and had survived three Winters, two wars and a fire. A few years ago, there was a fight outside the tower, and a man got thrown into the side of it. The entire tower crumbled and killed all those underneath. Do you want to turn out like that, Bran?". He shook his head and began to climb down quickly. When he got to the bottom, he called up to me.

"Aren't you coming down?"

"In a second. My leg feels a bit funny. I'll meet you in the kitchens in a few minutes". He nodded, turned around and walked off, followed by his direwolf. I walked around the edge of the tower, careful not to slip on the stones which crumbled beneath my feet. I was right – this tower would collapse soon. Hopefully not with me in it, though. That would just be unfair after all I had gone through.

Soon, the sounds of pleasure from inside became louder, as I got closer to the window. Damn, why were my palms sweaty? I needed to look calm, not like I was about to be shot. I considered taking a deep breath, then realised I wasn't the one who was supposed to be embarrassed. Smiling, I stepped into the window ledge, and sat down, swinging one leg over the side, in a casual manner, like I was not a bit of a Peeping Tom. Looking around the tower, I saw that there was nothing inside – of course, it was totally abandoned…except for the golden couple in the middle of said abandoned tower. Trying to ignore the moans and gasps, I realised that they were very much…preoccupied, and so it was up to me to start this enjoyable, reflective, soul-searching conversation. Now, what to say? It had to be something witty, you know, to metaphorically break the ice for this-

"Joffrey!?" Oh, damn. There was my witty starter for ten, gone like a piece of paper in a gale. Oh well, better late than never.

"Hello Mother. Ser Jaime", I said, respectfully, nodding at both. "I trust I am not interrupting you?".

Of course I was, and not only did she know that, she knew that I knew that she knew, and on top of that, he knew as well. It was quite confusing.

"What are you doing here, Joffrey?", Jaime was saying, almost shouting, with the tone of a young boy caught by his mother, playing an 18 rated video game whilst drinking beer. "I thought you were out on a hunt with the Starks and Robert?"

Half a dozen responses flashed through my mind, each one more inappropriate than the last. I settled for the last one, of course.

"I told Robert I had agreed to spar with you…although I see you are sparring already". He smiled, as if he was enjoying a joke with me, and not being the butt of one, whilst at the same time being caught nude with his own twin.

"I presume this has happened before? Maybe, 9 months before I was born?" I still smiled, but it was now being faked, and anger, raging anger that was boiling over underneath, came to the forefront of my mind.

"Joffrey…please…" Cersei stopped, as if she had nothing to say. There was nothing to say. What could you say to someone you had lied to – all their life?

I turned to Jaime, who wasn't smiling either.

"Should I call you father, then, _uncle_?". Jaime seemed to freeze, as if, all his life, he had been afraid of this moment, and now it come up on him, crept up on him, like a silent ghost, noticeable only with its hand around your throat.

This silent tear in all our lives reminded me of the Jeremy Kyle Show.

_"Joffrey Baratheon, you're father is…Jaime Lannister! (Round of applause). This means that you're not actually the royal heir, you're actually a Lannister. Oh, and you're not a Lannister, you're a bastard born of incest. Oh, and your parents have nearly identical DNA, if that makes you're situation any better"._

That was quite funny, because I had another chain to add to my shackles labelled "why I won't be king", but I wasn't going to throw a bomb on the already razed bridge named _The Legitimacy of Joffrey Baratheon_.

I tried to appeal to their sympathy. I wasn't a great actor, but I physically was Joffrey now, so I didn't feel awkward trying to pretend to be him.

"All my life, I've called Robert Baratheon my father. All my life, I haven't just been an imposter to the throne, I've been a bastard born of incest. That's quite a fall, in case you were wondering. And…." I stopped, to stare deeply into the nearly identical emerald eyes of my parents, "who have I got to thank for my position? You knew that if you had any children, they would be condemned and killed if their secret was found out – and did you care? Did you give a damn for my life, for the lives of my siblings, for the realm if anything was found out? DID YOU?" I shouted the last part, anger spilling over like lava over the lip of a volcano, faster, more powerful, destroying all in its path. My…dutiful…parents' heads shot up like a sledgehammer had been swung into their chins.

Cersei looked a bit shame-faced, and Jaime…well, only a psychiatrist could look past those eyes, once so bright, now dull, to the brain and understand the emotions underneath, like a shark patrolling beneath the water, unseen, unheard, but still there.

"All your lives, you've given everything for each other. Casterly Rock, you killed Robert's baby, everything, just so you could be together. And what was I to you? A child, a son – your son? Or a way to power, the unwanted but necessary fruit of your productive loins?". I turned away, disgusted with everything, about to climb down the tower, when a soft, broken, deep voice turned me round.

"Joffrey?...I'm…sorry". A pause, stretched out to eternity, to Judgement Day, to beyond. "My son".

I looked at Jaime straight in the eyes. A mirror of age reflected one onto the other, green onto green, gold onto gold. This was my father, and how anyone could not see that, I did not know. Maybe everyone had, but didn't want to voice their suspicions. I sighed. What had Jaime done? It was no better than a curse to allow someone like me to live, to face the danger of discovery without even being aware of what the discovery might be. But…was it his fault? Who had ever shown love and compassion to the Kingslayer? The man who revoked, broke, and spat upon any vow he had made? I pitied him, felt sorry for him, sympathised with him.

"I forgive you…father".

I turned back around and climbed down the tower, faster than before, for there was a weight off my chest that made me strong, happy…free.

I broke another bloody nail on the way down.


	6. Chapter 6

**_Sorry for the wait, guys. School is so delightfully...time-consuming._**

_Chapter 6:_

It had been cold a few days ago.

It was much colder now, and as Yoren seemed to delight in telling me in between chewing his sourleaf, it would grow much colder soon.

I could not share his enthusiasm, unfortunately. All the jokes of your breath freezing in your throat, blood freezing so fast it clotted before your body makes it clot, they weren't yet true, but a few more days and I would be able to believe it.

All the same, I never regretted deciding to travel to the Wall. Every day was a new landscape; an eternal wildlife documentary in HD. Beauty was everywhere, more easily seen than dew in the mornings. The people weren't half bad, either. As well as young Jon Snow, Benjen Stark and Yoren, there were two boys from the Fingers – rapists, I believe, although a few more months on those islands and they would probably be worse. There was me, of course, along with Sandor Clegane – I hadn't seen much of him travelling to and staying in Winterfell, and from the amount of wine he had apparently consumed, I doubt he had been seeing much either.

Sandor was the only condition of my visit to the Wall – the king had been persuaded through a few words of "seeing part of the kingdom I'm supposed to protect when you explode from all those pies", and Cersei…well, barely a look was suffice to crumble her opposition to this expedition.

Tyrion was here, along with his two guards, as well, making the merry band of 6 men, four boys and as many horses that much better.

The cold was deep, though. I had woken up every morning this past fortnight to find ice collecting on my furs, and a million tiny suns reflected back at me when I smashed it against a pole.

Benjen Stark had said that we would reach the Wall within two weeks, although I had no doubt he would be more pleased had Tyrion and I never reached it at all. When I had proposed to go along with my uncle, a look of disgust flashed in his eyes, and his mouth twitched, as if to give a strong negative, but had instead accepted, though telling us that "the ride would be tough, my lords" and leaving the "and you are not" unsaid, hovering like a bad smell between us.

He was wrong. Tyrion Lannister, for a creature half the height of any other man within a thousand miles, was tough. The going was harsh, even for me, and for Tyrion each step must be multiplied tenfold, each twinge, each ache.

When we finally stopped for the night, I noticed that he walked off into the woods with a book and a skin of wine. I paused, ready to follow him, until a white shadow passed in my peripheral vision. Like a ghost…

My suspicions were confirmed a moment later, when a deep yet unsure voice broke through the shadows of the night and the ice of the trees.

"Why did you come here?" Jon Snow asked me, his sharp and dark features blending in with the background – hard as stone, about as unyielding, and giving nothing away.

"Ah, I fancied spending a few weeks seeing how quickly I could lose feeling in my body, you know?". He smiled, and so did I.

"Now" I asked him, turning the tables, "the real question is why did you come here? If you're in search of glory, Jon, the Wall isn't the place to find it. What you'll find there is a life of cold, a life of chastity, and a life with rapists, murderers and thieves". He turned his head to the boys from the Fingers as I said my last words. He shuddered slightly – poor boy. I certainly wouldn't want to choose the life he had chosen…or maybe it had been chosen for him. After all, where could a bastard go? No knight would let him be their squire, a marriage proposal was out of the question, and I guess that life in Winterfell wouldn't be appealing if Lord Stark wasn't there to protect him from Lady Stark.

"The Wall saves the realm from evil", he said, almost questioning. This was the first time that anything bad had been said to him about life on the Wall, I thought.

"Ah, yes, wildlings and white walkers – the former just uncivilised northmen and the latter disappearing 8,000 years ago". That hit him hard, and like a boxer, he retaliated.

"I don't see you spending your life to serve the realm – you'll go back South and get a pampered life when the king dies". He was half right.

But only half, and I knew which part he had got wrong.

"Jon, I'm going to see the Wall. If it's about to crumble, I'll tell my father when I get back, and he'll send a thousand men to the Wall. If I wasn't here, the likelihood of you getting help equals the likelihood of finding a dragon under that stone" I said, pointing at a medium sized rock nearby.

"I guess you're right. It's just…I'm not sure, I just felt that joining the Night's Watch would be an honourable thing to do. One my father would be proud of me for. And…maybe even my lady mother". I put my hand on his shoulder, trying to comfort him.

"Listen, Jon. I admire you for joining the Night's Watch – even if you didn't quite know what life there would be like. It's a brave thing to do, and I'm sorry that more people aren't doing it". His expression softened, and we talked again, on the themes of missing family and friends.

"I always loved them, my half-siblings. I…I hope I get to see them again".

"I'm sure you will, Jon. The Night's Watch let their men go on missions down south – how do you think Benjen got here? Anyway, I would miss my siblings massively if I were in your position. They all love you, from what I saw. Robb, especially". He smiled, albeit sadly.

"Robb…We use to do everything together. Eat, drink, talk, fight. I still can't believe the spar you had with him. That was incredible!". I smiled, ever the picture of modesty, if I say so myself…

"It's not so difficult with a great teacher". Jon stood up, and drew his sword, castle-forged steel – probably begged off Mikken, but a good sword nonetheless. He swung it a few times and smiled.

"You could get Robb easy enough, Joffrey…but can you get me?" I laughed, jumped up, drew my sword.

The song of swords began its keening, sharp tune in the shimmering glow of the night.

* * *

"That's a fair-sized wall, hey?" I asked Jon, smiling. He smiled back, but Sandor didn't. He scowled instead, squinting against the strong, bright light of the sky to reach the top of the 700-odd foot wall in front of us.

"All walls are the same, boy. Three points of contact at all times, and don't let the enemy hit you whilst you're climbing up".

"Aye, but most walls can be climbed in a few seconds, can't they?" He shrugged and walked off with his horse, probably to get warm – which was a smart thing to do in a place where every breath sent shivers down your lungs.

I turned to study the castle. Well, castle was a stretch. More a few towers, with a large yard, and the general activity one would find inside a castle. The walls, as with any warm sunshine, were painfully absent.

I turned and followed the rest of the party inside, where we managed to find some fires, and even a bit of food, which was a welcome change from some dried meat of some kind from some other century.

* * *

"So, your highness, as you can see, the Wall needs more men, more equipment, more everything. All but three of the forts on the Wall are abandoned, this castle is holding less than a tenth of its capacity, the bulk of our forces are made from criminals who chose a life in black over a execution, and there are 16 more forts with naught but ice to guard the realm from wildlings...aye, and worse things" the Old Bear trailed off, adding a somber feeling to the already macabre situation.

There were six of us gathered round the table for this urgent appeal - myself, Sandor (of course), Tyrion, who was getting used to this news with help from a flagon of strongwine, the speaker, Jeor Mormont, who would probably put his hands together and knees on the ground in a few seconds if he had to, his steward, an average looking man with a nervous tic and responsibilities that seemed to include looking stoic and trying to be invisible (he was an all-round failure, in my opinion), and Benjen Stark, the honourable First Ranger.

After the far too brief encounter with the warm fire, the unremarkable steward escorted us up to the solar. From here, I could see Jon, assembled with other boys, fighting in the yard below. He was utterly smashing them, and none of them, including Jon, seemed to be happy about it.

I turned my gaze back to Jeor Mormont - a tall, thick tree trunk with white hair and a temper, although the latter had clearly been firmly suppressed for this meeting, instead almost pleading to me for basic necessities to guard a realm.

I loved how, in this world; a young teenager could do anything simply because he was the heir to the throne, and how no one could simply teach the boy in question anything.

"I'll get you your men, Lord Mormont". It was a simple statement, but that was all it needed to be. No fancy rhetoric, no political vocabulary. The Old Bear had spent his life on the Wall, and needed to know, preferably as quickly as possible, whether or not those years ever meant anything.

My response seemed to give him great comfort, and why not? The royal heir to the throne had just told him that he would solve his lifelong problem, and everyone knew he would have the power to do so. I'd be happy if I were in his position.

I noticed that Tyrion had a rather surprised look on his face, which in itself was unsurprising. His nephew, whom for over ten years had been a pompous self-obsessed maniac, had now taken an uncomfortable and seemingly unnecessary journey north, and had now promised to actually help someone.

I would have been flabbergasted in his position.

Looking back to the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, who had visibly slumped, as if a metaphorical weight of responsibility and self-doubt had been lifted off his shoulders...and put onto mine, which wasn't a great comfort. Already I could feel its pressure pushing on me with worries.

I dispelled it quickly and shook the Old Bear's outstretched hand, which was akin to arm-wrestling an angry...well...bear, which I guessed was apt.

After that, Jeor showed everyone what would be done with these "promised goods", which gave me a good idea of how many men, horses and gold would be needed, and, by God, it was a lot.

What was worse was that I had stopped counting halfway through.

* * *

There was no more white. Finally.

Finally the snow had disappeared, and like a good magician, the weather had conjured up some sunshine and warmth instead.

I was riding along with Sandor, Tyrion, and the Lannister guards. They also seemed to be in better humour, except for Sandor, where I couldn't see beyond the burnt face and the eyes blazing with anger hotter than the fire which had disfigured him.

Apart from my slightly mentally deranged guard, however, all seemed okay, and I was finally getting to talk to Tyrion, now that the wind and ice, which had confined us all to our saddles and our own thoughts, had now ended. He was very inquisitive, and made a lot of subtle jokes, along with many more unsubtle ones, usually thanks to some ale. He was currently without the latter and was trying to figure me out.

"So, Joffrey, why did you come on this wonderful expedition? I'm sure it wasn't my company, although I could be wrong", he asked, smiling. I smiled back.

"You could. It seems to be a frequent occurrence with you, uncle". He laughed, before turning serious again, gazing at me, through me, with those mismatched eyes of his.

"Funny, boy, but I've never seen you want to spend any time being uncomfortable before the day we left for Winterfell". He continued to look through my face, trying to unnerve me.

He wasn't succeeding. I had faced angry teachers in my time. A creepy dwarf couldn't hope to match any of them.

I stared right back at him, through his pleasant decor and down to his human – I would even say malicious – roots. Tyrion had been hated all his life, and I think it had embittered him, no matter how many jokes and kindness he would share. Let's not forget, this was the man who killed his own father, as well as ex-girlfriend.

"You've got to grow up and be a man one day. Everyone has to". For a few more seconds he looked at me again, before nodding slightly, and turning the conversation to more pleasant topics, such as his escapades from his youth, which seemed to all be concerning Cersei and ruining her day.

I liked his story about turtle soup the best.

It was nearly dark when we finally reached the crossroads, and the inn beside it, a large one, with smoke billowing from the chimney and the smell of broth in the air.

When we walked inside, I tried to look around through the hanging smoke. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't see the noble lady I had greeted only a few weeks ago, nor the old man in the yard when Robb and I fought.

And why should I? Thanks to a certain king, Maester Luwin had not been able to find any lens in a box, and Catelyn Stark had certainly not been able to read any hidden message.

The thought warmed me through the night and to the morning, and soon our group was riding off to King's Landing. Off to the pit of vipers. Off to where so much bad stuff would happen. Off to my future. Off to hope.

Off to peace.


	7. Chapter 7

_Chapter 7:_

The first thing was the heat.

King's Landing, and most of the area surrounding it, was easily warm enough to be considered the tropical zone of Westeros, a fact that announced its arrival with sweat, heatstroke, and an awful lot of hay fever – the latter made worse by the fact that the only way to stop it was with tablets – none of which were anywhere near here.

The second, more poignant feeling I had, which grew larger as we got closer, was the stench.

A gut-spilling stench that wafted everywhere, and stayed there. Sewage, blood, sweat, animals, all were thrown into the metaphorical pot and served up to us all.

I think it was because of its size. King's Landing, from what I could see, stretched almost to the horizon, and from a distance looked like one big mushroom, from the sheer density of all the houses, flats, hovels, and, indeed, palaces, that graced this city. It was probably as dangerous as a mushroom, as I was certain that none of these people were aware of all the kinds of infectious diseases that were bound to be there, or had any idea of hygiene or sanitation.

God, it was like my school.

So, this was King's Landing. A massive, sweaty, infectious wart on the face of this country that resembled a dung heap and was full of dirty flies, all trying to eat the most crap before they came to the end of the miserable, useless, unfulfilled, dreary existences, finally came to their senses, and died.

Ok, maybe it wasn't quite like my school…

I couldn't turn back now, though. With Tyrion to my right and faithful old Sandor to my left, our group approached the Dragon Gate. It was barred by a group of swaggering soldiers with gold cloaks, clearly the City Watch. However, it was quite enjoyable to see them move so quickly when they saw who we were, to the extent that two of them crashed into each other. Sandor and I laughed, and our group moved once more into the wart.

We dismounted, and I handed the reins of Comet to a stable boy – in fact, the same one who gave him to me in the first place.

"He's a good horse. Keep him fed and watered", I said, although probably a bit unnecessarily. What else would the stable boy do?

"Thank'ee m'lord. That I will". He walked off with the horse that had gone to the end of the world and back.

Further away from the grooms and stables were my family, waiting on the steps. They weren't dressed in complete finery, but at least they had shown up, which was nice of them. I greeted them all warmly, hugging my brother and the King, and kissing the hand of Myrcella…until I got to the queen.

Cersei raised her green, green eyes to me and raised her hand also, although no words passed her mouth. Maybe they couldn't. Nonetheless, I asked her about her journey south. She said that it had been fine, and why shouldn't it? There was no person to get Lady killed, or to even start the whole depressing event in the first place.

"There will be a feast later tonight to celebrate your return, Joffrey. Until then, please do what you want", she said.

That sounded fine to me. I liked feasts.

Turning around again, I saw four more people walking to the Gate. First, the ever impassive and cold Eddard Stark, along with his children: Sansa, looking beautiful in a purple dress, with her hair tied up, Bran, wearing a tunic and riding boots, and Arya, in the exact same as her brother. They were all followed by direwolves, nearly larger than the biggest dogs I'd ever seen. I called out to Lord Stark to try and get a laugh.

"Lord Eddard" I said, bowing, but only slightly, "you could have warned me before I nearly lost half my toes on the Wall". He smiled.

"Winter is coming, your highness".

"Aye, and frostbite too". This time all of them laughed, and I spent the rest of the afternoon enjoying the company of those happy people, those who I would keep happy.

* * *

I was bored.

I couldn't believe it, but I was.

I had been in King's Landing a few months, and had grown used to everything within a few weeks. Hell, I couldn't even smell anything wrong anymore!

I would get up in the morning, have breakfast, then train in the yard with Jaime, or Ser Barristan, or even the Hound. I was getting better – because you can get better at anything if it's in your genes and you spend half a day, every day, doing it. I could now hold them all off, and although it was not for very long, I was happy.

After lunch was lessons, with either Tyrion or the various maesters – however, not Pycelle, who had tragically decapitated himself, before sadly disembowelling himself, and then finally, bringing tears to our eyes, he had defenestrated himself into the river.

On an unrelated topic, I had recently donated many valuable gemstones, pieces of gold, and other small minerals, along with a large chain, to many of the public in King's Landing.

I already knew maths, so the bulk of my learning with the maesters was that of the other tongues – High Valyrian, a bit of Braavosi, and even the Old Tongue, although the latter was taught by a perpetually drunk master, so who knows whether or not he was teaching me or revealing secrets of walruses.

My lessons with Tyrion were less clear-cut. As the months went on, our friendship and learning progressed – for him, he had found someone who actually liked him and made him laugh, and for me, I had found someone who knew an awful lot about all things political in this world, and was quite prepared to tell me all of them.

By the third month, I could talk to anyone in Westeros and be understood, and most of the people in the Free Cities. I knew what the causes, reasons and potential effects were of most actions undertaken in King's Landing and beyond. And I could fight on par with who were considered to be the best swordsmen in Westeros.

I also had continued my friendships with the members of the Stark family. I had passed many sunsets with Sansa talking about anything, I had climbed every official building in King's Landing with Bran, and had even begun to teach Arya to fight (and to steal, but I wasn't telling anyone else that). I had passed a quarter of a year in this urban sprawl, learning many, many things.

And I had nothing else to do.

It sounds beyond spoilt, and I'm sorry for thinking it, but when I came here, my vow was that I would stop all things going wrong, and after helping the Wall and the Stark family, all I had done was train my mind, tongue and arm.

But not any more.

I was supposed to influence important events in Westeros, make it a place where not quite all men must die. I wasn't going to do that as just a prince. I needed the power that only advisors could receive.

Advisors…hmmm. That gave me an idea.

It was lunchtime now, and these series of thoughts had come at the end of a spar with Jaime that resulted in no-one getting hit, and had continued for so long I wondered whether or not it would end. When it finally finished with a tense stalemate of both our sword at each other's throats, I walked off, and went to find the king.

Unsurprisingly, he was having lunch, and was now attacking a hunk of ham in the same way that I had attacked Jaime earlier.

I walked up to him, and waited patiently for the ham to exit his throat.

"Aye, boy" he said, burping loudly, "what do you want?". He was smiling. I wasn't.

"A place on the Small Council". He nearly choked on the ale he was quaffing down.

"What!" he spluttered out, "-_cough_-why…do you-_cough_-want a place on the Sm-_cough_-Small Council?". I stepped forward, braving the small, meaty missiles that were exploding out of this behemoth.

"I'm your heir, and when you kick the bucket – which might be soon considering you're choking right now – I'm going to have to take control. And how am I going to do that properly if I've never seen you govern the kingdoms? In every castle, the Lord takes his heir to all the meetings to show him how to rule. Why aren't you?". Robert looked fairly convinced – a difficult feat considering he hadn't breathed for the last minute – but after a while, I realised that pressurising him to do the right thing was something that people had done for the last fifteen years, and look where it had got him. So I played my trump card, one I knew he would listen to.

"Well, Your Grace, if you don't shape me for rule, I'm certain the queen will". That settled it – I could see it in his eyes. He did not trust the queen, and he – as he had said himself, was only here to stop a puppet being on the throne, fed by whispers from the queen, doing what she wanted.

Limitless amounts of power to the limitless capacity of insanity, called Cersei Lannister. He didn't want that. Who would?

"Fine then boy", he told me, smiling slightly whilst wiping the grease from his mouth, regaining some of the fire that the true man used to be, "let's go rule the kingdom, then".

He stood up suddenly, smashing into the table, causing it to crash to the floor, along with all the food on it. I neatly jumped back to avoid a tsunami of beef to my legs. We both walked off, followed by Ser Barristan Selmy, I noticed.

Before soon we reached the council chambers, and I saw the four people who really ruled the Seven kingdoms.

There was Lord Renly, the younger, more innocent version of Robert, dressed as if he was about to enter a fashion contest, and swanned around like a diva. He was camp, no question about it, and gay? Well, it was heavily implied.

There was Lord Varys, a middle aged, middle sized, bald man, wearing a massive towel and smelling like a teenage girl who ran into a cosmetics shop and tried all the free samples on.

Standing next to him, looking plainly annoyed, was Lord Stark, uncomfortable in his tunic and the brooch of Hand of the King. He smiled when he saw Robert, and nodded at me after he saw me as well.

Finally, in almost the corner, was Lord Petyr Baelish, known as Littlefinger. I disliked him from the books, and in the flesh he was worse, looking like a very tall leprechaun, always preventing himself from hunching over, rubbing his fingers together and laughing manically, but the smile was still there, the smile of "_I will ruin you, kidnap your wife, kill your children, and up to that moment you'll think that I'm your friend_". It was awful, and I swore I would wipe that smile off his face one day.

Robert almost fell down into his seat, and accepted the polite greetings with no more than a grunt. I nodded back to those who greeted me, although for some, I would have been happier to give Robert's reply.

Robert wasn't happy, however. Far from it. The first thing that had been done after he crushed the wood beneath his behind was for Varys to withdraw a parchment scroll from his long sleeves, like a magician, except one who has just realised that they are violently allergic to rabbits, and will die soon. It was clear foreshadowing, and I had an inkling as to what it was for.

Robert opened the scroll and read the paper, before throwing it onto the table.

"_The whore is pregnant!_" he hissed, spluttering, turning a violent shade of burgundy.

"Who?" asked Eddard Stark, worried. We all were. We all wanted to ask as well… but I knew. I knew that there was only one person who could have got Robert this angry.

A Targaryen.

And not just any Targaryen, but a pregnant one. There was only one person who fit that category. A moment later my thought was aired, in the voice of a young boy.

"Daenerys Targaryen", said Varys, with a bow of his head, "has married the Dothraki Khal Drogo and recently become pregnant. If the baby is a boy…well, he will not be content to stay in exile from his own kingdom".

"I want them dead, both of them, dead, now! I want to see their skulls beneath my throne so I can stand on them. I want to see the last Targaryens crushed beneath my feet. I WANT THEM DEAD!" Robert was shouting, spraying spit and hate throughout the room as it progressed. It would have been almost impressive had not he just asked to kill an innocent girl and a mentally unstable boy, along with a totally innocent foetus.

Lord Stark seemed to think this too, and was pleading for Robert to avoid this. Robert interrupted him, intent on spreading his hate message around, so I interjected.

"So", I said, "let's make this clear. The poor young girl, who has lived her life perpetually in fear of being killed by you – because of her family – has now been married off to a savage, has become pregnant, and now is going to be killed – again because of factors not her own, in this case, because of who she has been forced to marry. Is that the reason for which she must die?" I asked, looking around to all those present. Throughout my speech, the other members of the council lowered their heads slightly, as if they wished to become invisible. I continued on. "Yes? Ok then, let's kill her". It had the desired effect, and I caught Lord Stark nodding in approval.

Undoubtedly, it was Robert who replied.

"Do you want another civil war, boy? You weren't even born when your family were placed on the throne. You wouldn't know the Targaryens, what they would do, would kill". He broke off, seething.

"Yes, Your Grace. I haven't seen war. But I've seen murder. I've seen innocents killed. I've seen men kill those underneath them just in case they might one day rebel. And this is all three. You say you don't want to see the Targaryens back on the throne. What was Aerys, except for a paranoid bastard who ordered the deaths of those who opposed him?" At the end of my speech, my stare forced Robert to falter, and Eddard took up the fight.

"Robert, she is simply pregnant. If she gives birth to a girl, we needn't worry. If she miscarries, we needn't worry. If it is a boy, he will not invade for years yet. Even Aegon did no conquering before he was weaned. Even if the baby becomes a man, and raises a million Dothraki, we needn't worry until the day he can teach horses to ride on water". Now the tide was turning against Robert (notice my wit), and he knew it. So did the rest of the Council, who stayed silent, except for Ser Barristan, who had followed the sequence with horror.

"The Prince and the Hand are right, Your Grace. There is honour fighting an enemy on a battlefield, but none in killing him in his mother's womb". Now half of the Council were against the other, and Robert was aware of this.

"I am the king! Where is my power, my leadership, if I cannot use it on one who would kill us all?". He had a point, and when I thought about it, I actually wanted to stay in power. "King Joffrey" had a lovely ring to it when I mulled it around my mouth. Daenerys was someone who hated anyone who bore the name "Baratheon", and I was in that lucky few. I should let her die, and in fact, make sure the assassin didn't screw up like in the books.

But…it was only after the assassination attempt that Daenerys wanted her throne, and that Khal Drogo decided to invade, which makes you think – what would happen otherwise? Plus, her dragons were only born on the funeral pyre of Drogo – whose death indirectly stemmed from this assassination attempt. It was a slim chance, but I knew what would happen if we were to do it, and there wasn't much worse that could happen.

I would take that chance.

And so it was that Robert gained no ground on this issue. Every reason I countered, every interjection from Varys, Petyr or Renly, I shot down. That was why after an hour, Robert shot up, threw his goblet away in disgust, and spoke the first words that gave me worry in this new life.

"Fine then." he spat out, "Let the savages invade and kill us all. I'm going hunting".


	8. Chapter 8

_Chapter 8:_

In the forest, all was calm.

The leaves, weary with the day, were moving gently in the wind, the branches echoing their dance.

Further along, some rabbits were gently hopping around, nibbling on the vegetation as the sun shone through the canopy, as was their custom.

For a moment, all was calm, until a stag, white as snow, flitted past like a shooting star, and faster than it, a cry echoed around the gilded forest.

"Damn! The Others take that blasted arrow! Is that what a day of hunting was good for? Who fletched that bloody arrow? I'll have their head where that stag's should be – you see if I bloody don't!".

Quicker than the stag, than the shooting star, the rabbits shot away. Birds fled to the sky. Even the sun shone that bit dimmer. The moment, like all of our patience and Robert's self-control, had been broken.

It was the third day of hunting.

Half the nobility had managed to travel to the Kingswood, it seemed. Over there, behind that rock, was Jalabhar Xho, the exile Prince who seemed to be content with a life on benefits. He was standing there with his goldenheart bow, next to Renly Baratheon, armed with a large hunting knife. Both of them were bedecked in as fine a splendour as a muddy forest would allow.

Behind them were more nobles, more squires, knights, grooms, hunting boys and their hounds – hundreds, it seemed. No wonder the stag had been scared away.

I was standing next to the king, as was my due. Robert wasn't the best with a bow, but at a distance of just over 20 metres, anyone could have shot that stag.

It would have been the culmination of the hunt. On the first day Lord Renly had "stalked and shot" a bear – although stumbled across a very small one that even Tommen could stab would have been more likely.

The next day the whole hunt had found a herd of deer, and had a merry time stabbing and whirling and shooting away at the poor creatures. Even a lion had been located, trapped and killed. But the White Deer…now, that would have been a prize that no one could best.

It appeared no one could accept it either, especially poor Robert. Several hours, silent riding and tense hunting attempts had left the group mirthless and bitter, none more so than the man who was accountable for the poor misses we had all suffered for.

Now that it was over, people stood up, cracking knee joints and groans of pain filling the air where once were the songs of birds. It was a poor substitute.

A mood of glee and joy filled our hunting party as the White Deer was spotted, an anti-climatic pain of near ecstasy every time an arrow missed. It chipped everyone down to the bone – and none more so than Lancel and I.

Lancel Lannister was a young, arrogant, headstrong squire, with a man's body, a child's brains, and a noble name. And he was the bane of my life for the past few days. Everyone who read the books knew of what he did, and in the flesh it was understandable. Every break we had Lancel was there with the infamous flask of strongwine and a smirk on his face.

At least, it was on there until Sandor and I cornered him against a tree and played bad cop, bad cop with him, until both blood and tears were spilling down his pale, fuzzy cheeks, along with promises of what he would "definitely no longer do, Ser". The last word simply inflamed Sandor, and soon he was taken off to the travelling maesters for care against "several bad falls onto a rock".

He appeared now again, a tall, straight man with a scared boy's eyes. Those met mine, and he turned away instantly. I smiled – he certainly wouldn't be trying to do that again, not for any amount of love Cersei could give him.

Cersei.

The woman was a puzzle, one with no key, no good solution, and a deadly punishment for failure. Despite all my appeals to her, her desire, her ardour for power was as unstoppable as a glacier, despite her inconsistency and stupidities. It was the one thing she would always be, unfortunately, although dead was what would replace that characteristic if she stayed the same as she was now.

Take this, for one. She had seduced poor Lancel and forced him to kill Robert – or to try, at least. It was easy to stop, but I had the advantage of knowing what would happen.

This time.

What would occur, who would die when next time came around? When my actions led to a new event that I couldn't foresee or even guess. I was playing a game now, no matter how much I laughed about it. One that mattered. The game.

Shoving these thoughts out of my mind, for they would do naught but spread and crush all else, I walked up to the head of the party, where Robert was waiting by a kneeling groom. I arrived just as the groom finished to speak.

"-And it's only a few miles away, m'lord. The dogs wouldn't go nowhere near it. It was a big'un, he was, m'lord – I could hear 'im squealing from a mile off!"

Robert's expression grew as the groom progressed, first from a look of sorrow to a look that would have shamed a famished tramp stumbling upon a banquet. This was the energy that won the throne. This was a man about to go hunting.

"What is it, Your Grace?" I asked as the groom finished. Robert dismissed the boy with a wave and turned to me smiling, with eyes flashing with hunger and thoughts of glory.

"It's a boar, boy. You heard him. A big'un".

* * *

This was a different kettle of fish altogether. A boar did not hide, did not run. The party were galloping off to its lair, trumpeting the horns and calling everyone to arms. As the twigs and leaves crunched beneath our feet, the squealing got louder, and marks began to appear by our side. A long gash in a tree, young saplings uprooted, broken branches, and a clear path furrowed out by the roaring boar.

We soon reached the apparent lair of the boar – a monstrous deep bush, with ivy, holly and even Prickly Ash, I think, although the specific species didn't matter as much as the psecies that was hiding within. Snuffles and snarls broke out, and the bush itself seemed alive from all the shaking and quaking. I saw Sandor standing next to me as the group dismounted and formed a circle.

"By the Gods", I said to him, "that's some pig". He turned to me and smiled, eyes and teeth flashing like warning signs.

"I like a bit of bacon, boy". I laughed.

The main hunting party formed a tight circle around the bush – knights making up the majority here, I noticed – and grooms ran round, handing out boar spears. From the other side of the circle I heard some low shouting, that turned, expanded, into tune and into a song. No. Not a song. A chant.

_"Come out, pig, come out._

_We'll bash you, smash you, gut you,_

_Smoke you, string you, eat you._

_Come out, pig, come out"._

The tune invoked some primal part of me, of all of us. I felt a yearning – no, that was too civilised. I felt an urge, a want, a need, to sing that song, to stab that pig and feel its blood run down the spear and see the life leave it as I wrenched the spear and-

I shuddered. Everyone was out of control, I would say. In a few more minutes, half of them would be foaming at the mouth with thoughts of boar-killing. I almost laughed. It was like _Lord of the Flies_, except real and set in the Middle Ages. I just hoped that I wasn't Simon or Piggy. I didn't want to be killed by my subjects around a campfire.

As the groom went past, he handed Sandor and I a boar spear. It was massive, a hefty 6 or 7 foot long wooden shaft of ash that I could barely wrap my fist around. It was worn smooth with countless hands from hunts, and around the sharp tip was matted bits of fur and dried blood. This was a killing weapon, no question about it.

When everyone was ready, the hunting boy released the boarhounds into the bush. They charged into it, howling and foaming at the mouth to attack the boar. A few seconds later, a squeal, a devilish snarl, erupted from the bush, and the howls of death and pain sounded, the final announcement of life for some of these hounds. Soon a hound, bleeding from a gore in the side, limped rapidly out of the bush and charged to the hunting boy, where it quivered. More dogs followed, the last only making it halfway before stopping, faltering, falling. Dead.

The lacerated hound drew our attention for a heartbeat. Then the pig appeared, like a monster from a cave, one big, ugly beastie.

I raised an eyebrow appreciatively. The howls, the snorts, the squeals – none did this beast proud. From tusk to rump, this behemoth was easily 6 feet, and stood at height with most of the men here. All I could think was "I hope I don't have to kill that". It seemed most of the others thought that as well, and the primal, violent tune ended abruptly, until some idiot began to shout.

"At me, you stupid pig! I'll show you who the king here is!".

Okay, then. A royal idiot. The boar turned to Robert Baratheon, and lowered its head, as if to pay homage to the ruler of the land the boar had lived all his life, along with lands beyond it could not even comprehend. The dream, however, ended with a squeal and a giant pig charging at the king.

My heart beat faster, faster and faster until I thought it would burst and then more. In the books, it was this boar who ended the peace in this land, with one long slash to the king's stomach. And here I was, living it out, the death of someone I had promised to protect, the death of more staring me right in the face.

No.

Robert would not die here. He wasn't drunk, wasn't incapable. The king was bouncing on the balls of his feet, the spear languishing at his feet, ready to pounce up and taste the blood of this monster.

No.

The boar was closer, the snarl louder, the tusks seemingly sharper. They were long, those tusks. I had seen swords smaller.

No.

The king was laughing, cursing the pig and its family, questioning its legitimacy to the title "boar", describing how small its tusks and brain were.

No.

The boar crashed through the branches and twigs of the golden forest, snarled a satanic roar, and leapt up, to crash, crush and kill this imposter to his forest.

No.

The Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, after declaring who the boar's mother was (a small runty rabbit), went down onto one knee, and lifted up the spear faster than I could see, planting it into the ground and supporting it, waiting for the boar to land onto its death.

No.

For a moment the forest was still, all organisms transfixed with the majestic, momentous event that was occurring, the fight of kings. The birds were still, the leaves paused their dance, the two mighty monarchs set as if in stone.

No.

Then it was over, and the boar crashed down onto the spear. It entered its chest and emerged the other side. The boar lowered its head and convulsed, squealing its final few breaths away.

No.

Relief, more palpable than the spear in my hand, than my body, than the existence of life itself, emerged into my consciousness. I had done it, I thought to myself. It's all right now. There will be peace. There will be hope. There will be no sorrow here today, nor any other.

No.

The spear broke from the weight of the boar, wood splinters firing in all directions. The pig, convulsing in its death throes, rang out its cry as it fell down, tusks out, hooves facing the ground.

The beast landed onto Robert, bursting the king's skull open like a ripe pear, and the brains leaked out into the dirt of the ground, watering the soil with his lifeblood.


	9. Chapter 9

_Chapter 9:_

_…and the brains leaked out into the dirt of the ground, watering the soil with his lifeblood._

With this simple statement my world imploded, just like Robert's skull.

For a moment, the forest was silent once more. But not calm.

No. This time it was not a feeling of peace causing the lack of movement, but shock, adrenaline seeping through countless veins, mental paralysis trapping all those nearby until something, someone, broke the awful silence.

Someone did, and emptied the contents of their stomach onto the ground.

This impromptu act released us from the shackles of inactivity, and I, Ser Barristan, and Lord Stark all rushed to the king, or what was left of him. Still gripping our spears, the veteran knight and I made sure the boar was dead, stabbing at its throat, chest and head. Whilst this fairly useless but satisfactory action was being committed, Ned dropped to the ground and held Robert's broken skull between his hands, fluid leaking through his fingers.

When I finally dropped the spear, shaking with grief from the loss of Robert, intense dismay from what I had failed to do, and above all, shock from seeing a wild animal violently murder someone I knew before my eyes, I turned and knelt by Eddard. Ser Barristan was already there, trying to gently pry him away from the corpse. Eventually he succeeded, and I was left with the shell of a man who was a laughing, cursing, living human being just over a minute ago.

I forced myself to look at the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and revulsion entered my mind, unwanted, insensitive, but revulsion nonetheless.

Only his expensive clothes could have marked him as a noble, and only a crown as the king, but apart from that, the person in front of me was a bag of flesh and a sack of fluids. His head was a fine ruin – half a ton of boar had mashed his face into a shape recognisable only as a pulp, similar to a tomato that had been driven over by a 42 ton articulated lorry. His body had not fared well, either. If his skull hadn't been crushed, the shattered ribs and spine and burst organs would have surely killed him. His belly was contained as a whole quantity purely by his tight fitting hunting gear, but blood was seeping through, and made a gory pool around my feet.

This was the price of my failure, I thought.

This was my peace, my reward.

I closed my eyes, and gave the final farewell – not to the bag of bones and flesh before me, but to the man, the lord, the king that was, and now was no more. I wasn't really religious, and I certainly didn't believe any of the religions in this world, but out of respect, I muttered a quick prayer.

Then I turned around, and left behind the man who had been, and saw all the hunting party.

They were all there, in various states of mourning, from those like Renly Baratheon, who were weeping slowly but surely on the ground, to those who were still standing in shock at what they had seen. When I turned round, however, all those present went down to their knees. Why?

The answer came to me just as death came to Robert, unexpectedly and suddenly.

The king was dead, and a new ruler was needed.

I was needed.

For a split-second, I was in shock. I, king of a land the size of Africa? A land of wealth, where I would rule – at a time of utter autocracy? For a moment, ambition and greed showed their face, and a deep cavern was shown to me, a cavern of vice, power, avarice, one I could fall into and never return. It was an intoxicating draught, one I desperately wanted, needed, nearly decided to sip.

Then I stopped.

Who was I? Was I Joffrey, a bastard in every possible way, seeking to gain power and influence in every possible way, a totalitarian megalomaniac?

No. I was a king. I was a ruler, a steward of this land, the shepherd of my people. I would not let them down. I would not control them, trap them, ruin them, kill them. No. I was honourable. I would be fair. I would spend my life working to make peoples' lives better, and not for thanks. It was all I could do, all I could give.

And by God, would I give it.

I heard Ser Barristan shout as my contemplations ended and I returned my attention to the forest.

_"Hail to the king, Joffrey Baratheon, First of his Name!"._

Then the rest of the hunt joined in, added to, forming a wave, a tsunami, of sound and respect.

_"Hail, Lord of the Andals!"_

_Hail, Lord of the Rhoynar!"_

_"Hail!"_

_"Hail!"_

_"HAIL!"_

The voices got louder, became closer, until I was sure this could be heard anywhere I the forest, in the world. I was king, and these my people.

Who could stop me now?

* * *

We carried his body back to King's Landing, weeping as we bore him on our shields – both out of grief and the cadaver's pungent odours. I don't remember much of it, but I can recall the smallfolk gathering out to see him, to pay their last respects to the late monarch. Dark clouds gathered, a mirror, it seemed, of our feelings and grief.

Word had spread quickly, and by the time we got to Baelor's Sept, the fools and flatterers had gathered. Countless noble ladies wept and dabbed at their eyes, keening and murmuring pointless unwelcome nothings. The men were not really any better, dressed in their finery, whispering their commiserations in hope of power and sympathy. Leeches at a hunk of flesh. How I detested them.

We broke through the line of fools and the veil of grief, to the real mourners. Tommen and Myrcella were sobbing gently, Cersei, in a surprisingly maternal way, had her arms around them, and a sombre mood had crossed her face. There was subtly hid ambition there too, like a deep mine shaft, covered with a thin rug. I glared at her with a scowl and an unwavering stare until the rug became a strongly barred and highly secure trapdoor.

Next to the royal family were the friends. Veteran knights had gathered, old generals from the old days of Robert's Rebellion, proud and tall in their armour, but sad too, for the day had come when their lord was no longer there. In front of them were the Starks – Sansa, Arya and Bran, standing together and looking sad. Eddard ran up to them when he saw them and began to whisper to them, and they nodded back. I noticed Renly went over to him – Robert's best friend and best brother probably had a lot in common.

And yet there were more, more to see the dead king and to pay their respects, men who fought with him, women who had grown up with him, and these were just the ones in King's Landing. It was sad, I thought, to see that those who were highest could be picked off, just as those who were low, by the indiscriminate and unmerciful hands of fate.

Another knight came along and took my place holding Robert up. I stopped and stretched, relaxing my shoulders after the painful yet determined procession.

I went over to my royal family and held those I considered my family. Together we stood and viewed to slow calvacade of Robert to his final resting place.

* * *

We buried him as the sun went down that day. The High Septon wheezed out his achievements, and the undertakers bore him to his designated marble slab, the smooth white rock closing off his head and severing his rule on this land forever.

It was a gloomy affair, and the inactivity of standing gave everyone little to do but philosophise, and the macabre situation inspired little joyful considerations. It was probably worse for me, as the next time this happened, it would be my turn. The sheer closeness of the event made it worse for me, but also a sense of challenge was there – "how long can you last?"

I liked challenges.

At the end of the funeral, Cersei pulled me away. When we were in a quiet corridor, she began to speak urgently.

"Joffrey, you're going to be king now".

"What? I hadn't considered that possibility before". She began to look angry.

"This isn't the time for japes, Joffrey. Remember…you-" she looked around suddenly, furtively, like one about to commit a murder, "-aren't actually the heir" she finished with a whisper.

"Yes", I said. I wasn't the heir. However, it was for a different reason than not being a Baratheon. Maybe "not from this world" would be a better reason. "I'm not the heir. But who knows that?" I continued, unflustered.

After all, Pycelle – and the book that showed my illegitimacy – were both gone. Lord Stark didn't know…could he? Suddenly, it came back to me. Renly already knew! And the moment he mentioned it to Ned, a lifetime of friendship with him wouldn't stop him from telling Stannis. A moment later my suspicions were confirmed.

"Renly knew…a long time ago. He began to look at me like I had taken his birth right – which I probably had, but that's irrelevant. If he hasn't told Ned yet, he will soon. And once our dear, loyal Lord Stark knows, Stannis will too. We'll have a civil war against us, Joffrey!"

I was still, standing quietly, contemplating.

Cersei was right – civil war was blooming, the dark clouds already gathering at the corner of the horizon. Soon it would be upon us, wreaking its destruction in the form of lawlessness and grief. The only question was when.

Damn it! I was already allowing the threads of the story to revert back. This was the civil war, the War of the Five Kings, for crying out loud. I had to stop it, for my family, for the lives of everyone on this godforsaken rock we called Westeros.

I took some deep breaths, calming myself.

Now was not the time to make rash decisions. Now was the time for cool, collected actions, perfectly timed and executed. So, Renly knew, and whilst he wouldn't tell Stannis for fear of more civil war, he would have to tell Eddard to get numbers on his side in King's Landing. Eddard would then tell Stannis, so whatever Renly did, eventually he would have to face Stannis.

That meant the key was Lord Stark. If I could get him onto my side, I could force allegiance from Renly, and then Stannis might never even know. I would give him some more land to keep him sweet and uninterested in my history, though.

Now that I thought about it, what I needed to do was simple. Find Stark, explain situation if he knew, or kept him away from Renly if he didn't. Once I had Stark, I had total power over Renly, and therefore, indirectly, Stannis.

Now, then, why did my plan echo something from my brain? Something about Eddard. Something about Renly. Something about Eddard and Renly – talking together.

As quick as a bolt of lightning, I realised what had happened. Renly had been talking to Eddard just now!

Oh, that hurt.

My cool, collected plan had been shot down before it even began, a termination of events never to be seen again. Or was it? Renly wouldn't have spoken to Ned in front of the children, so he would have gone to a corridor or other secret place. Renly would ask him to support him to overthrow the pretenders – temporarily of course, until Stannis arrived.

That meant Eddard would be sending a raven to Stannis…right now.

I looked up, and realised that I had spoken the last sentence of my thoughts, and Cersei's face had gone from furtive to downright guilty…aye, guilty and scared. A lot of that as well.

I sprang away from the corridor, through the main hall, shoving past the sudden plague of deceiving well-wishers and swarm of nobles. Soon I passed Baelor's Sept, and was running through the streets. My feet pounded the cracked stones and dried crap that was the road in this city. It was dark now, and there were some unsavoury looking characters about. I ignored them all, and continued to run. Before long, I could see the rookery on the edge of the hill, and ran to it. Two sentries guarded the entrance, and the fatter one challenged me.

"Halt there! Who is it-Your Grace!" he said, bowing down and lowering his halberd. His slightly thinner friend did the same.

"Has…Lord Stark…come here?" I asked, out of breath.

"Yes m'lord. He came just a few minutes ago". That was good. That meant, even though he was planning to get me killed for treason, I had guessed correctly.

I drew a peculiar satisfaction from my worst fears being confirmed – at least it meant I wouldn't be caught surprised.

"Make sure to delay anyone who comes through here, and if someone else arrives, I was never here". I smile and wink, before handing him them both some golden dragons. They smile and wink too, promising never to speak again, and 'thank'ee m'lord for your kind service' while they were at it.

I hurried up the stairs, through the abandoned chambers of the late Grand Maester Pycelle, and up to the rookery. Just as I burst through the door, I saw Eddard Stark with a raven, tying a letter around its leg. The letter that contained the death of thousands – myself probably amongst them.

"Stop!" I shouted. It was all I could do.

Time slowed down, my limbs travelling through syrup, encased in stone, immovable. I saw Eddard turn round, surprised, letting go of the raven at the same time from the shock. His eyes narrowed when he recognised me.

When he let go of the bird, it flew away, unaware of the sheer danger of what it carried. I considered drawing my hunting knife but thought better of it. By the time I could have done it and thrown it, the bird would have been a good 40 feet away, and hitting a small, moving object at that distance that had already faded into the background was not something anyone could have trained for. Most likely, all that would happen would be me losing an expensive dagger. Plus, it wouldn't be good to draw a weapon and then throw it in the direction of someone who was already planning to kill me. There was no chance of diplomacy then.

So, the bird flew away, and with it, a chance of a peaceful rule. From now, there would always be rumours of my illegitimacy, side-glances, numerous rebellions, all because of one man's bloody appetite for honour. The last part hit me the worst. Lord Stark had been the first reason I had wanted to come here – to save the man who just tried to do his best. I was trying to keep someone alive who had just ruined any chance at peace and hadn't made any friends out of it whatsoever – especially not with me.

"What the hell was that for, you bloody fool!?" I shouted at him. He didn't look sorry, for unknown reasons that were beyond my comprehension.

"I support the rightful ruler of this land, boy, not a Lannister imposter". He began to look haughty at the end of it…or maybe he was just happy to finally insult someone and be honourable at the same time.

"Okay, I'll ignore the slightly racist generalisation at the end of that sentence", I said, my voice slightly defensive.

Poor Eddard looked confused. I guessed 'racist' wasn't a word in this country, at least not yet – sure, "peace" didn't seem to be a word in this world either, so I could understand why. I continued on unperturbed.

"But do you realise what you've done, for the country and for the peace?". His eyebrows furrowed, as if deep in thought.

"Stannis is the rightful ruler, not you". I smiled then, out of the irony of the situation, and because any other reaction would be tears.

"So you expect Renly and Cersei to just wait until Stannis comes here, then swear fealty to him?" The eyebrows furrowed further. I guess honour could be a powerful reason that needed no other thought for some people.

"Once this is found out, Cersei will get you arrested for treason, probably execute you, and take power. Once that happens, there will a massive bloody civil war between the Baratheons and the Lannisters. Then where will we be? You'll be dead, all your servants will be killed to stop them helping the other side, there'll be a massive civil war, and half your family will probably end up dead as you brought them here, and many other people will die. Is that your idea of 'honour'?" I was quite worked up at the end of my speech, and why was that a shock?

"Listen, Lord Stark", I said, adopting a slightly more friendly and gentle tone, "Does it really matter who goes on the throne as long as they are kind, smart, strong? Are we really in the era when a simpleton could become the ruler of Westeros? If a rapacious, violent, mad noble came to the throne, would he really be the one you would support over a kind, strong, just peasant? Is blood all that matters, Eddard? Then ask yourself this – what good will come of telling Stannis this? And don't say honour – you know yourself that's a childish excuse for the civil unrest that will come of that letter" I finished, gesturing to the empty window.

Ned was quiet, and stood there, hopefully contemplating on what I had said. Soon, he looked up at me, and began to speak in a less haughty, more "oh-shoot-what-have-I-just-done?" kind of voice.

"In Robert's Rebellion, I joined the fight – one I had no choice, though. Everything I've ever done since was honourable. I have never broken my honour. It was the one thing I am proud to say that I have done. So, I ask you, Joffrey Waters – for you are a bastard – why should I break my honour for you?" He finished, almost spitting at the end. I wondered what he meant when he said he had never broken his honour except for joining the uprising. What did this mean about Jon, then, I wondered.

I cut short my musings. There were important things than who were Jon Snow's parents, like trying to avoid getting killed.

"Don't do it for me, Eddard. Do it for the people who will die in the wars to come. Do it for every boy sent off to fight, every girl raped by army deserters and enemy soldiers. Do it for the children you brought to the pit of snakes we call King's Landing".

Throughout my appeal, his attitude diminished, and when his children were mentioned…well, what wouldn't a loving parent do for their child?

His eyes glazed over slightly, and I heard him muttering "Oh, Catelyn, what have I done...you were right…I was the stupid one…oh, Cat…" He broke off, almost staggering from the fear of his realisation. I could almost see the options being considered in his head.

He could no longer go to Stannis now, not without risk to his children. Even Renly would be a danger – he could be allied with the Lannisters, not Stannis. There was only one thing he could do, and just as I realised that, he looked up, defeat in his eyes. He dropped slowly to his knees. In an almost indiscernible one, he began to speak.

"I, Lord Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, do swear allegiance unto death to Joffrey Baratheon…Your Grace". He stood up once more, and I smiled. I had saved him. He didn't know it, but I did.

* * *

This was a nice piece of chicken.

I was at my coronation feast, and the day seemed to be going well.

The coronation itself wasn't very exciting. It was a warm, summer sunny day, one I would have preferred to be riding or fighting or even talking, not wasting my morning away leaning from one leg to the other trying not to yawn.

There were a lot of oaths and standing and kneeling and singing in this bloody ceremony. I felt like I had stuck my head into a Songs of Praise full DVD collection, on repeat and without any toilet breaks.

It seemed an eternity and a half before I even got onto the massive pile of swords called a throne, and twice more before I got a twist of gold on my head and managed to relieve myself. Now it was my coronation feast, and soon the whole blasted affair would be over.

I could focus on consolidation, and get Renly. It had been two days since the death of Robert, and I was impatient. I had been speaking with Tyrion, who urged me to wait – he believed that Renly was waiting for me to get him, as Eddard had never told him of our meeting.

As far as Renly was concerned, he could wait until he had bought up all available forces in King's Landing and attack at his leisure. Sure – Stannis hadn't even gathered his troops yet. With the time he had been given, he could be halfway here by now.

So, at the moment, Renly was trying to buy up the City Watch. Unfortunately for him, he didn't know that I had bought them beforehand – and their commander, Janos Slynt, had mysteriously fallen off a tower and Jacelyn Bywater, a good friend of Tyrion and I, was the new commander. They were mine, along with all but a few of the forces in King's Landing.

I would wait for Renly to try and attack, before his forces betrayed him and I was able to – perfectly justly and legally – exile him. After, I could deal with Stannis at a later date, and crush him. Then I would be able to do what I wanted.

I hummed, content, before realising just how megalomaniac that sounded. I cursed and looked around the room. We were in the Great Hall, everyone eating their way to gout and diabetes. I had barely looked at the last few courses – save for the spicy chicken I was eating at the moment, that tasted suspiciously like KFC.

I was at the centre of the dais, surrounded by the Starks and the Lannisters. Below were countless nobles and knights. I didn't want to invite any of them in, but Tyrion told me it was best to keep them sweet. I reluctantly agreed, but I certainly wasn't going to talk to any of those fools.

On my left was Eddard Stark with Bran, Arya and Sansa. They all looked happy, and for that I was glad. I spent a lot of that evening answering Bran's questions about being a king, and made jokes with the others. On my right were all the Lannisters – Jaime was standing behind me, as a member of the kingsguard should. Tyrion and Cersei was also there, the former more talkative, especially as the ale flowed more, whilst the latter reserved, probably planning what she would do with her power – though I stop that as soon as possible.

I looked around further, and saw a messenger standing at the side of the hall, next to the captain of my guards that I had sent to follow Renly, the first group he had "bought". Why he was here and not with Renly I didn't know, but it wasn't going to be anything good.

The messenger looked nervous – no, more than that – and was clutching a tiny scroll as hard as he could. I stood up and walked off, excusing myself. When I got to the messenger, I found that he was shaking. Considering I wasn't a scary figure, it gave me a premonition, and not a joyful one at that.

"My lord…" he began, then stopped, and handed me the piece of parchment – the kind that ravens would carry, I noticed.

Before I started to read, the captain of the guards spoke.

"M'lord, Renly has gone". He had a neutral expression, not one of boredom. "We were following him, but he must have figured out our ruse, because he managed to ride off with some of his own troops, sellswords from the Hand's Tourney. They killed five sentries and guards, m'lord, all good men". His expression darkened.

"It's all right, captain, we'll get justice for your compatriots". I paused. "How long ago was this?" At this he began to look uncomfortable.

"This afternoon, Your Grace". I was shocked. I expected a few minutes ago, maybe an hour to gather facts make sure what had happened. Not half a day ago.

"Why didn't you come here?" I asked him, keeping my voice low.

"I'm sorry, m'lord, but we weren't allowed into the Great Hall – orders of the king, we were told, and the stewards wouldn't try to belay that order. Since we were on duty, we went back to our post – but we left one of the recruits here to find you when you came out", he quickly added when I looked angry. With an effort, I calmed myself, and told him to continue.

"Lord Renly sent a diversion as he left – a fire. It was one we could deal with, so you weren't informed. You would have been tomorrow. As guards were ordered to go there and help, they ordered Finwick – the recruit – along as well. Since it was just a fire, he expected to return maybe a few minutes later. Unfortunately, he got knocked out when he was trying to stop the flames and only woke up a few minutes ago. He ran to us, and we ran to you, and here we are". I thought for a moment. It really wasn't his fault, just sheer chance.

"It's all right, Captain. You can return to your post. You did the best you could".

As he left, I turned to the messenger, my mood grimmer than before. It seemed I would have to fight for what I believed in, but I would die before I would let Stannis or Renly on the throne. The messenger gave me the scroll, slightly damp from the poor boy's sweat.

As I read, my premonition became more accurate. Detailed in the letter were bad tidings:

_"Your Grace,_

_Stannis is moving. His ships have all gathered at Storm's End, and his army are recruiting soldiers. A few nights ago, rumour was it a raven came into the rookery, and whatever was in it, there can be no doubt what we will happen next. He is heading to war, your Grace, and with you – Stannis crowned himself this morning._

_Your servant,_

_Colligner_

I wondered who Colligner was. Probably one of the spiders Varys delighted in talking about. I would thank him later.

I dismissed the messenger, and for a moment, the crown I bore felt like lead, dragging me down. This was a death sentence on my head, and the executioner was coming for me, with the name of Stannis Baratheon. I was doomed. I was dead. I was-

-Not going to give myself a heart attack. Who was I, some middle aged women off a US reality TV show?

I was a king, with forces at my disposal. More than forces, I had technology from another world.

Technology only teenage boys like to memorise.

Smiling, I walked back into the feast hall, and tossed the parchment to Tyrion. When he read it, his expression was shocked, and when he looked up, even more so, by my ghoul-like smile, teeth like splinters, swords.

"What does this mean, then, Joffrey?" he asked me, as Cersei grabbed the parchment and frantically began to read, eyes wider with each line, with each word.

I smiled once more, power and bloodlust coursing through my veins in preparation for the fight to come. As Cersei dropped the scroll and hung her head in her hands, I spoke the only word it seemed this nation knew:

War.


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's note: Thanks to all the readers, especially Master of Dragons God, and DarthMihi, for all their help. To all the rest, I will mention you one day – all you have to do is review several times…**

**Remember – when brittle things crack, they crack hard.**

_Chapter 10:_

It was a sunny day.

It was warm, there were no clouds, and the field was a deep, pure green.

It was a lovely day for a picnic, for a walk.

It was a lovely day for battle.

* * *

It was about two weeks after my coronation. A fortnight filled with oaths, with fear, with marching – all culminated to this day.

After the interrupted feast that night, we gathered in my solar, the moon eavesdropping on this most important conversation between the powers of this city.

There was me, of course.

Next to yours truly stood Ser Jaime and Ser Barristan, resplendent in their gilded armour and stoic expressions.

Ned Stark was standing opposite me, pale hands gripping the edge of the table, his gaze that of a rabbit caught between a wolf and car headlights. I guess going to war against his proper liege lord was difficult to do.

He would bear watching. I hadn't forgotten how easily he had given in the other night, simply by having his children threatened. And to go to war, against the real heir to the throne…well, I was half-expecting a dagger in the back.

Standing next to the giant Northern rabbit was Tyrion, tucked into a large chair and warming himself with a large flask of something incredibly alcoholic.

Beside the dwarf, hardly invisible – but very quiet – was the Hound, scowling at all he could see, and doing his best at everything he could not.

Finally there was Kevan Lannister, standing proud next to me. This one was reliable. He had done everything I had asked without hesitation so far. If anyone would be loyal, it would be him.

It was sad that I had to think about everyone like this, but I wanted – no, needed, to stay here, on this throne.

I wouldn't be kicked off by some up jumped noble thinking he was being honourable.

I tuned into what Tyrion was saying, hoping we had moved on from the issue of how many salted hams we would bring on the march.

"And so, that is why I say it is less ham we need, not more".

Well, maybe not.

We were all hunched over a large, ornate map of Westeros, looking at the valleys and fields we could use as battlegrounds in this civil war. I sighed. People didn't even know there was a war on, let alone that a bunch of nobles were deciding if they would fight and die in it or not.

I interrupted this pathetic debate, trying to move the wagon along. As a keen reader, I already knew many macho ways to end this rebellion, along with more…explosive…methods.

"This is irrelevant", I snapped at them. "Currently, 30,000 of Stannis' troops and easily more of Renly's are marching on King's Landing, whistling _'The Raines of Castamere'_ and considering how many of us they will kill. And all we are doing is working out what we will eat on our way there!"

I was quite irate, and more impatient. There was some longing at the base of my being, a monster in a cavern that wanted to be let out, which relished the slaughter and gore of war. I was scared of that monster, but it was part of me, and so I wanted some of that too.

And that was more worrying.

Abandoning my philosophical and possibly psychopathic musings, I looked up again. All the powers in King's Landing were staring at me, like a beetle discovered on a piece of furniture. Eventually Ned Stark voiced their concern.

"Your Grace, without wishing to cause offence, you are too young to go to war. It is too dangerous for one of your rank and prestige. This is a rebellion, not a royal event. You need not be there".

I was astounded. I was gobsmacked, shocked, amazed. Of all the things I believed would happen in the next few days, twiddling my thumbs next to the women and old men of this city was not one of them.

My shock gave way to anger, and I voiced it.

"What do you mean, 'too young'? I'm a king – your king! I…" I stopped suddenly. What was it Tywin said? _Anyone who says they are king is not_. I believe Margaret Thatcher also said something along the same lines. Who was I, thinking I had a divine right to do what I wanted?

Suddenly, it became too much. I was 14 years old, for God's sake! I had played along so far, doing what I wanted, playing in a little, make-believe world, away from concerns and danger.

I wasn't Joffrey. I was just a normal schoolboy, who should be out with my friends, or watching a film, or playing football. Not standing around in a bloody castle, with a bunch of medieval warriors, in a dark room that stank of piss and wine, in a bloody duvet made of furs, wearing a stupid, bloody crown, arguing about why I should be going to war!

I snapped, like a hot plate dropped into cold snow. I saw ten other people in the room, two dwarfs, two giant rabbits. I ripped off my royal cloak, sank down on my chair, defeated, flagging…

Slowly, my breathing became regular, and a feeling of calm passed over me.

For too long I had lived in my own bubble, learning 'how to fight with Jaime', 'how to make it up with Cersei', and how to fix every bloody, unimportant, selfish thing in my life. It was time to accept things, time to realise that there was only so much I could do in this world.

I understood it now. All those people who talked about how easy it would be to fix this world were wrong. It was impossible. That I now knew. I knew it because it happened when I was here, and seemed like it would happen anyway now that I was.

I gave up, as simple as that. All I had done hadn't affected the main source of trouble, so what was the point of trying? I could sit back and enjoy the life of a constitutional monarch, with the ability to know who was trying to kill me. It would be so calm, so easy, so…

Submissive.

That was the word. That was who I would be. A weak-willed, easily led, puppet of a child, preened over, made unaware of his own limitations. Was that who I was?

My answer was simple. I stood up.

I stood up, and I looked Stark in those cold, grey eyes of his.

"No", I said. It was all I thought.

"That's not who I was born to be. I vowed to look after this kingdom, and I'll be damned if you people keep me here like an injured pet, cared for and kept inside, out of the rain. I will fight, even if it be on my own, against all of the power of Renly and Stannis". Suddenly, a weight lifted off me, like a massive lead Bergan, the straps digging into my arms, that vanished in a unheard, invisible puff of smoke.

I had finally opened my eyes. No longer would I pretend I could do everything. That was stupid. That was not who I was. It was time to put away childish things, and accept things for what they were.

I couldn't save everyone. I couldn't stop this war, stop thousands from dying. But if I made one person better, even for a millisecond, even if it cost me my life and everything else, it would be worth it. I would do it. I will do it.

Lord Stark raised an eyebrow, and Tyrion smiled – hopefully out of pride and not mockery.

Surprisingly, it was the latter who spoke next, laughing and snorting the wine out of his nose.

"Well said, Joffrey!" Turning his attention to the rest of the group, he smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

"To be fair, Joffrey is right. You can hardly expect the smallfolk to follow their leader into a war – probably against their own family, depending on their view – and without knowing or seeing who they are fighting for".

He turned his overly large head round the room once more.

"No objections? Good. Now, with that over, I believe we were discussing hams…"

* * *

The arrangements were eventually completed that night, and I added some more requests, after the rest of them had gone, personal yet vitally important components. Whether it would work or not, I had no idea, but I was damned if I would just ignore the possibility.

The next morning, the civil war was announced to the world. Ravens, flying through the night, arrived at all the rookeries of Westeros, informing the nobles of the rebellion and imploring them to fight against it.

I didn't hold out much hope.

Oh yes, there would be ravens back. "We're on our way", "We'll gather our men", all of that.

It would be too late, though, was the important thing. Stannis had already begun to march, and Renly…well, he had instantly gone to the Tyrells, as suspected. His numbers mastered some 80,000, and soon they would march as well…

My nihilistic thoughts were useless, and would do naught but bad things if they festered. So for the next few days I worked, handing out mail and weapons to the new recruits from King's Landing, helping the soldiers train, working with some of the smallfolk on their farms, before battle would destroy the land. I was everywhere always, doing all I could. I was aware that it was little, but the effort was there, along with the desire to help those I met, interact with them, make someone miss me if I died.

And so it was in this way that a week passed, and soon the army was ready to march. All the nobility gathered to cry their goodbyes, and I was mirroring some of their actions as well – although I didn't let anyone see it.

Myrcella and Tommen walked up to me, both red-eyed. I suddenly felt awful. These were lovely, kind people, who deserved a nice, older brother to talk to them and take care of them, and instead, had just got the cold shoulder.

I hugged them, for how long I didn't know. When we separated, I looked in their eyes.

"I am so sorry for not being with you…whilst I could. I promise to you, when I come back, the first thing I'll do is spend every afternoon with you two. We're family, and I should have treated you as such". They nodded, crying gently. Myrcella was the first to break away.

"Look after yourself, brother. We need you. The realm needs you", she said with a sad smile, before turning away to walk regally to Cersei.

Tommen eventually broke off too, weeping as he asked me why he couldn't go with me.

Soon it was Cersei's turn, after my two siblings – for they were that, and no one would stop me saying that – had gone to their chambers. I bowed slightly, and kissed her hand.

"Joffrey-", she tried to say.

"Mother, I will be fine" I assured her. She turned her bright, beautiful green gaze on me.

"That wasn't what I wanted to say. I wanted to say that you had better kill Renly and Stannis before I will forgive you for this stunt". With that abrupt, grinding adieu, she wheeled around and disappeared, leaving naught but a trace of perfume and a small sense of disappointment.

As I turned around, I saw a commotion by the Stark section of the column. Lord Stark was sitting on his horse, along with Bran – who I also had neglected out of my own blinkered vision – both proud and tall. As I watched, one of the Stark men – Fat Tony? Fat Tom? I wasn't quite sure – marched up to Eddard, a squirming young squire in his grip.

It got better. As the guard began to speak urgently to Lord Stark, the squire lifted his head.

It was Arya.

I laughed quietly. Of course Arya would try to fight. I decided to go over and allow her to go along – she would probably turn up in the column anyway.

As I started to walk over, however, I stopped.

This wasn't my concern – it would be rude and stupid to bring Arya along – there was no way she would be allowed or even able to fight, and I would insult Eddard by going against his wishes and bringing her along.

Stupid me! There I was, going along, trying to change things. I would only make it worse. I was bring arrogant, foolish, a conceited boy in a world of wise men.

So, Arya was sent away. The last of the goodbyes was said, the last saddle packed, the wagons ready to go.

And go we did.

* * *

It was a sunny day.

It was warm, there were no clouds, and the field was a deep, pure green.

It was a good day. A day for battle.

A large field, located somewhere south of Bitterbridge, was our Colosseum, the pit where thousands would die, where once there would be crops grown and harvests gathered.

We had arrived late a few nights ago, and would stay here until Renly arrived, which, according to our spies, would happen somewhere in the next few hours. When we arrived, he was still feasting in Highgarden, but now he had began to move, and would soon arrive, with thousands of men and horses.

This field was probably the best location we had, so Renly would not be surprised that we were waiting here until he came.

Now he had. 80,000 men – at least – were spotted a few miles away. They would set up camp, content in the knowledge that only an idiot would charge it. Then, if we were lucky, a messenger would be sent out to negotiate. But after that, there would be fighting, and lots of it.

Thousands would die, and Renly thought they would be on our side.

This was because he expected the bulk of our tactics to be a pincer movement, some form of cavalry, maybe even a catapult or two.

He didn't realise that our best weapon, or rather, my best weapon, was underground, in a giant mound that men had been digging out for the past few days.

He didn't realise his destruction was lying in a few hundred empty ale barrels, almost crushed under the weight of each other.

But then, what did Renly know of gunpowder?


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's note: Hello everybody. I changed the summary of the story, in hopefully a non-useless attempt to inspire more to read. Please tell me if it tickled your fancy or deflated your interest. Also please tell me if you have any improvements to my writing - I want to keep writing as well as I can. Thanks, and enjoy the chapter. ST.**

_Chapter 11:_

The horns blew.

Across the large field, a steady clangour emerged, first thumps in my feet, then a shout, a cry, from the throats of thousands.

Thousands, all baying for my death.

Some primal urge, instinct, told me to hide from this danger, to run and never to stop. I was just a teenager – I wasn't ready to fight, wasn't able, wasn't willing.

I swallowed nervously, my pulse racing like a muscle car. My limbs twitched with the adrenaline, sensing everything. I felt like I could do anything. I felt like I was about to be killed.

I looked to my left, and saw the ever stoic, ever-scowling Sandor Clegane beside me. As my head turned, his did too, and his irate gaze studied me.

"You look scared, boy", he said, in a calm manner, as if discussing the weather.

"People are about to die", I answered, in a skittish tone. "I could be one of them".

"Aye", the Hound agreed, "you might die, from a mace to the head, a spear to the gut, or even a sword in the chest". He began to smile, the joyless mirth of those about to brush the sleeve of death, send others to her cold, dark embrace. "But all men must die, and I'd like to do that with a curse on my lips and the blood of my enemies on my blade".

I nodded, and together we watched as Renly's army emerged through the distant brush.

* * *

Gunpowder is a chemical explosive, one of the earliest known in the world. I think it was discovered by the Chinese (as everything else seems to have been, of course). It is made up of a mixture of sulphur, charcoal, and potassium nitrate, otherwise known as saltpetre. The idea is to ignite this fuel, and it will explode, at several hundred degrees in temperature. However, it only expands in a deadly fireball – which was what we wanted – when placed under pressure – therefore why the sealed barrels were needed.

Now, the first problem with stockpiling gunpowder is obtaining it. I could hardly go up to one of the maesters around King's Landing and ask for a smidge of Potassium Nitrate, preferably not in aqueous form, could I? However, these materials are easy to locate. Charcoal, of course, is easily obtainable from coal, and sulphur is an easily identified substance – just ask for that smelly yellow stuff mined from caves. Potassium Nitrate, whilst it looks difficult to find, is a simple chemical found on cavern walls, usually in deserts. This means that it was a simple matter to find all the traders in King's Landing who had recently gone over to the Free Cities and beyond, who wanted to sell their share of "cave jewels", I believe one of them said.

Now I had the gunpowder. The next step was where to place it. As I said, the gunpowder must be placed under pressure in order to explode and not simple burn. This was the real reason for arriving at this field a few days ago.

At any time, day and night, there would be a few hundred men working on my project, either mixing the materials to make the gunpowder and placing them in sealed barrels, or digging up parts of the field, so that several large caches of gunpowder could be placed every 100 feet or so. I also made sure to place many small stones and rocks between the barrels, to act as shrapnel.

This work, whilst it sounded easy, was fairly arduous, and care had to be taken to place the gunpowder in the pits the right way – not breaking the barrels or leaving all the stones at the bottom. Eventually, however, the last group finished, and now the whole field was a massive booby trap, that no one knew about.

No one but a few others and I, of course. I had to show an example of gunpowder to Tyrion and Lord Stark, an experiment I misjudged slightly. However, it was all right in the end, and I'm sure Tyrion's burns had nearly disappeared by now.

Despite the injuries, Tyrion was grinning ear to ear when I showed him this experiment, adding an almost evil look to his twisted face.

Lord Stark was a little less happy, seeing the horrible damage it could do.

"This will kill people in awful ways, Your Grace", he said, scowling.

"Lord Stark", I answered, "Renly outnumbers us slightly. If we don't have this, we will all be killed in awful ways". It subdued him, although I noticed that none of the Starks' men worked on the gunpowder when we got to the field.

That was when we were still at King's Landing, however. I noticed I was reminiscing about those days of a semblance of peace. That needed to stop. I was going to survive this battle, and all the others. I would have those days of peace again. I had to.

* * *

My God, Renly's army kept coming, men upon men upon men, more than we could ever hope to fight on our own, equipped with their wagons and carts.

Then, suddenly, it stopped, despite more of the army still gathered outside the field – some even putting up tents or settling down!

"Why have only a small amount come in?" I asked Sandor, puzzled.

The Hound turned to me, and after a short pause, answered in an angry tone.

"They think that a small amount of men is all they need, boy".

Confusion gave way to anger, a bubbling cauldron of hate and rage that bubbled over. I turned to my right, where I had stationed a group of archers. The head of the group, Jalabhar Xho, turned back to me, ever glittering in his bright raiment, a large bow at his side.

"Jalabhar", I asked him, calmly, "when I give the order, I want your men to hit all the mounds we were digging over the last few days, with flame arrows. At the same time, if you can".

Jalabhar smiled, and bowed deeply, exaggerating every move.

"Of course, Your Grace. I myself will hit the furthest one", he replied in a smooth manner, washing over me like melted butter.

I smiled, the glee of a man executing a perfect plan. I nodded back to him, and we both turned away.

Now I turned to my men, the few yet brave people who had joined up without a moment's hesitation. I loved them for it, mad, murdering warriors though they were.

"Now, men!" I cried out to them, as they all turned to me.

"You see what the traitor Renly has done? He thinks he only needs part of his army to slaughter us!". At this my men called out – they too had noticed the small part of the army attacking. I continued on. "But he is wrong. Every one of us is worth ten of his! We will beat them. We will smash them! And when the singers tell of you – and they will, my friends, they will – they will tell the story of the brave soldiers of Westeros, who fought the masses, and won! For Robert! For your families! For our freedom!" I shouted.

The army – my army – answered, with the banging of shields and the cry of thousands, all for freedom, all for me.

I turned back, and faced the enemy as I continued.

"We attack at the signal. And you all will know what that signal will be, my friends. That signal is our victory!"

They all continued to clamour, shouting a challenge to Renly's army.

Suddenly, without warning, Renly's army began to charge, a line of cavalry before a mass of footmen and soldiers, screaming their hate and rage.

I turned to Lord Stark, also on my left.

"Why haven't they negotiated? Isn't that normal in this situation?" I asked, worried, gesturing to the field as a whole.

Eddard Stark turned to me, and smiled sadly.

"In their eyes, Your Grace, we are the rebels and traitors. By negotiating, it would make us look more noble – not a risk Renly can afford to take". He turned back, as a squire ran up to him with Ice, his massive greatsword.

I turned back, and placed my helm on my head. It was lovely armour – gilded plate with engraved and decorated enamel. There were antlers on my helm, of course. I had to at least look a Baratheon here.

It may have been lovely armour, but it was heavy. It could have stood up without me, and the helm felt like a small oven, cooking my head like a chicken.

However, even a cooked chicken was preferable to a mutilated chicken, in my opinion, so on the helm stayed.

The cavalry were closer. Oh my God, they were massive, half a ton each – of muscle, bone and metal.

Suddenly, the true extent of the situation dawned on me. We were fighting against superior numbers, relying on primitive explosives, which relied on a flame arrow to ignite them, which relied on a bunch of fifty archers making an accurate shot of about 100 metres, whilst being charged by about 15,000 men.

We were dead. So very, very dead.

I nearly collapsed as my legs suddenly went weak. What on Earth had I expected? We were about to be brutally killed, me first as I was at the head of the column, killed by animals I had always thought lovely and domesticated. This was messed up, so messed up.

Then a feeling of hope emerged from my beaten spirit. Dead? Maybe I would be killed, but not by these animals. I had foregone a shield for two swords, long, sharp and deadly. Let's see these beasts kill me. I wasn't going to die, not without taking a few of these bastards to hell with me.

I looked up, and snarled, an animalistic urge for blood in my veins, adrenaline more concentrated than acid. I stood up tall, and pulled my swords out of their scabbards. Suddenly, I felt calm. So, this was battle. The ultimate test of character, the chance to win or die. No money required in this gamble. Just strength and bravery.

I smiled, and turned to Jalabhar, who was watching me intently. I grinned further, then spat out the word this cavalry would take to their grave.

"Fire".

Jalabhar echoed my order almost instantly, and his archers all brought up their bows, and fired, in an irregular rhythm that I later realised was so they could hit their targets at the same time.

Fifty little flames flew through the air, and for a moment all was quiet, all was calm.

Then the first few arrows hit their targets, and all hell broke loose.

I saw a few arrows going off slightly, missing the mounds. They, however, found themselves in several soldiers, taking the prize for the first casualties.

The majority of the arrows, however, hit the mounds that were closest to the enemy – it wouldn't have been a smart idea to hit mounds right by us, now, would it? – and for a second that seemed almost an eternity, the arrows simply stuck there.

Then the flame spread to the barrels.

A moment of quiet, when everyone stopped, watching the mounds and the arrows.

Then the explosion.

No. That's wrong. It wasn't just one, it was several explosions, little 'whumphs' of noise and light that sent tremors along the ground and burnt onto your retinas. If you closed your eyes and tried really hard, you could almost imagine it was a strong drumbeat.

But there was no music in the screams of the dying.

I hadn't closed my eyes. I hadn't really tried. And so all I could see was the burning.

Fireballs exploded around the field. A moment ago, there was movement, thousands charging at us. A second later, there was none. Those who were not instantly killed from the heat were burning alive, and those who were not burning were knocked down by the explosive shockwaves.

A collective shout went out from our side – some in disgust, some in awe, but all in shock. As I turned, I saw Sandor shaking, before crouching and retching up his breakfast.

Of course he would be shocked – the Hound hated fire. All I hoped was that this episode didn't break him mentally.

I looked back, and saw what was left of the cavalry, a screeching mass of dead horses, dead men, cooked flesh all around. It was awful, beyond awful.

And my entire fault.

That was the truth. I was responsible for this, this murder, this torture, this destruction. How could I live with this? All I could see in front of me was dying, dead, burning. It was so close I could smell the scent of cooked flesh, a rich, smell wafting down, like pork crackling and burnt steak.

I tore away from my thoughts. Now was not the time for guilt to fester away, now was not the time for mercy. Now was the time for action, for termination, for battle.

As I was watching – as we all were, without doubt – a lone cavalryman galloped through, his horse burning before his eyes, as he drove it on, the whites of the poor beast's eyes showing, yellow froth spurting from his mouth.

The soldier was screaming, whether a bloodthirsty cry or an agonised scream I didn't know.

He was charging towards me.

As he got close, the horse faltered, hoof sticking in a rabbit hole. The leg twisted, instantly breaking with a sharp crack. The soldier was hurled forward as the horse bucked and fell.

To be fair to the soldier, he handled the whole event well. As he got closer, I could see that his back was on fire, but he managed to turn his body in the air, landing with a roll to spring back to his feet.

Only to find my sword in his throat.

For a moment all I felt was a sense of satisfaction at how well-timed the move was. Then guilt swept in, tsunami waves over a small island, and grief, grief for a man I didn't know, for a man who was trying to kill me, grief was there as well. This was worse, an action I had taken that was directly responsible for somebody's death. Pycelle, Slynt, even all those human candles of Renly's army in front of me – all their deaths had been arranged by I, but their execution was not my responsibility, my fault. I was not to blame.

But now I was. This man was proof of that.

He shuddered violently, vomiting up his crimson soul, spilling it onto the ground with the mud and the weeds. A second later he looked up at me, and mouthed a final word, the shape of which faded before I could work it out.

Then his eyes rolled upwards, and his life was extinguished.

For a moment more, there was quiet, a moment where all my army looked at me. I looked away from the soldier, to the distant bodies, burning and smoking in the wind. From the fiery pit of death I saw men get up, hold up their weapons, and form a line. Now was the time to attack, to stop these soldiers killing us.

I brought my sword out of the man's throat, stepping back as the corpse fell forward. I raised the blood-soaked blade to the sky, and cried the signal, to all my men, to all of Renly's, to everyone in this world.

"CHARGE!".


	12. Chapter 12

**Hello everyone. Here's the next ****instalment, and thanks again to all the reviewers and followers and favourite-ers who keep this story going.**

**Despite the reviews, I couldn't find any remarking on my new plot line, unless the "tone down the dramatisation" reviewer just wasn't being specific. Honorary mention and imaginary prize to the review which has the best improvement for my plot summary!**

_Chapter 12:_

As a line my army obeyed. We charged across the field, crying out as we did, so loud I wondered how they still managed to sprint, but they all kept it up.

As I turned to look at my army – my men – everything went into slow motion. I saw a footman near me raise his sword to me in fervour, and I saw the sunlight glint off his steel. Further on, I could see every action of that footman reflected across hundreds, thousands, all my men here today. I turned my head back, and saw the Hound, twirling a massive greatsword in his hand as if a stick.

I reached up with my gauntlet, and closed my visor, blinking as my world receded into a thin slit of vision. I breathed out. I breathed in.

Halfway there.

I thought about what I was going to do. I might die. I might kill. There would be death either way.

Nearly there.

I could see the expressions on the face of the enemy now. No man standing up was unscathed – I noticed the blackened clothes, the dented and melting armour flung off, abandoned, the fear in their eyes as we were approaching-

We were there.

The fear on the face of the soldier opposite me disappeared, just as my sword shot through the air and appeared in his neck.

Quickly as it happened, he was gone, and a snarling, sinewy man took his place, without any armour but with two long, rusted daggers. He stepped forward and sliced across at me before ducking back, a precise, practised move that would kill anyone.

Anyone without plate, that is.

The serrated edge of the knife scraped along my breastplate, before bouncing off, leaving nought but a small scratch. I sliced with my dagger, and its bite did more than scratch the sinewy fighter.

He fell forward, surprise and fear masking his features. Then he landed, and his face disappeared from view, lost, forgotten.

Then another soldier took his place, shouting, "_I've got the traitor! I've got the traitor!"_ until my blade got him in the face, and both his urgent cry and his existence ended.

Another soldier took his place. I forgot his face the moment I saw it. He died too fast for me to try again, and after that, someone else took his place.

And so the cycle continued. I would slice, parry, duck, block, thrust, kick, punch, slice, slice, slice – do anything to stem the flow of enemies that poured straight to me.

At one point I was fighting inside a merchant's carriage, at another I was escaping when someone set fire to it. I remember tripping over a dead body, landing the moment before an axe appeared where my head was. I thanked the dismembered corpse, before scrambling up, trying to block the madman's axe.

The madman in question happened to be half a giant, and the axe, an ugly, double-bladed shaft of metal larger than a shield – I knew to be death if you got hit. I shrank back, ducking and jumping out of the way when the axe came my way. _"How could I kill this idiot?"_ I wondered.

As I was contemplating the best form of evisceration, the madman managed to feint with the axe, swing it one way, then stopping, swinging it back and then around to attack from the other side, a feat I almost admired – that was, up until it hit me straight into the side.

The sheer force of it was almost incomprehensible. My neck almost snapped purely from the whiplash, and I was sent, careening like a rag doll, across part of the enemy camp. My swords fell out of my hands, so quickly I couldn't even feel it. About halfway through my debut flight, my body realised there was something wrong with my right side, and began to tell me, in the form of pain.

A thousand fiery spiders bit me, each locking its jaws and twisting, fighting for a place amongst each other to rip my flesh and gnaw my bones, till I felt there was naught but blood and churned up flesh on my body.

I barely felt the landing, although I knew I would later. I couldn't breathe, and tears instantly sprang to my eyes. What had I done to deserve this? I was just a boy, a victim in this world. Why me?

I looked at my armour, seeing it through blotted vision, sparks of flame jumping across my eyes as I saw that it had taken a dent and a half. On top of that, my right arm was dead and my ribs were on fire. And that was just the good news.

There was still an axe-wielding murderer behind me.

This knowledge – this certainty that if I didn't move now my life would end here – gave me the strength, the will, to crawl on, to stand up. Not to die crying out in pain, writhing on the floor. It was the first injury I had taken. It would be the last – that I swore.

With an effort I couldn't even imagine replicating, I wriggled along the floor, focusing only on my twin swords lying next to a set of crates a few feet in front of me. From there anything could happen. I had to get there.

Two feet.

I could almost wriggle without pain now, an unsurprising fact considering the speed of my heart rate and the sheer volume of adrenaline coursing through my veins, so much I almost felt like it would explode out of me like a massive, bloody geyser.

One foot.

I tried to stand up, placing a quivering leg on the ground, before it failed and shot to the ground again, taking me down with it.

Then I was behind the crate, and I turned round, feeling safe behind the protection of the wooden box.

Then it crumpled as the madman cleaved it in two with his axe.

I scrambled back, heart beating so fast it felt like it would burst. I jumped up, managing, by some miracle, to stay on my feet. I grabbed the swords, and looked up at the madman, just a moment before the axe shot out again from the side of my vision.

I brought my blades up, forming a protective "X" shape with the steel. It was barely enough protection from the colossus in front of me, the swords buckling and a deep nick appearing in both.

It was worse for the madman, however, who had clearly not expected resistance of that kind, or maybe he simply was a bad fighter. Either way, his axe, having clanged off my blades, proceeded to buck out of his hands and fell to the ground. He blinked rapidly, shocked, before automatically reaching down to grab his weapon.

He never did.

Seizing the opportunity, I half-lunged, half-fell forward, slashing upward savagely as I did so. I obtained a queer, macabre delight in feeling the axe man's blood shoot out and splatter across my armour.

We both hit the floor at the same time, crashing down with a solid thump. I spent a few, precious, ecstatic moments resting on the ground. I had done it. I had killed the beast.

The fight was done.

Then I groaned and got up again, accepting the inevitable cycle of battles. It must have only been a few minutes, but it felt easily like I had been fighting for the whole day, and partway through the night as well.

I walked away from the body of the axe-wielding madman, and left his brains to leak out through his broken skull.

I walked past the series of supply wagons to where a massive group of men were fighting. Since I was on the side closest to where we began it were my men closest to me. I walked up to them and was instantly greeted by a smiling Jaime.

"Where have you been, Joffrey? The battle's over here, you know!". I didn't have the energy to smile back, and simply stood there, trying to get my breath back. As I breathed, I could see movement near the trees at the other end of the field, first only a flash of red or moment of blue, but soon glinting metal and the matt brown of skin came into view. As I watched my suspicions were confirmed, when a massive group of cavalry and footmen appeared at the other end of the field, pouring in like flies into a shaded room on a hot day.

I turned to Jaime, gaping. I told him to turn around, which he did, before transitioning from a savage smirk to a shocked silence.

"Oh bloody hell" was all he said, before I shot into action, once more alert, once more ready to fight. I concentrated, wondering how on Earth we would be able to survive a mounted charge in such disarray, and even if we did, how would we survive the battle on two fronts?

The answer came to me, subduing the monsters of panic that were ravaging my mind. This battle would finish the way it started. With fire and explosives.

I walked off, and sent a nearby squire to find Jalabhar, who ran off quickly. When I got back, I realised that Jaime had spread the message, and people far from the front line against the last patches of resistance on the other side were now building barricades out of the wagons and crates, forcing the cavalry to attack through a thin area, easily guarded by our men.

After a few seconds, Jalabhar came running up, escorted by a few of his archers. I told him my desperate plan.

"Jalabhar, I want you to aim for all the mounds that you missed the first time around. Can you do that?" He nodded, and ran off to organise his archers, tassels and ribbons flapping as he went.

I turned back, surveying the strewn field of battle before it would, once more, be incinerated. I saw only mutilated bodies and still forms. There was no mercy out there.

I turned back, satisfied, as Jalabhar returned, archers hurrying behind him. I noticed fewer archers, and signs of battle shown on their armour and faces.

As they set up, Jalabhar turned to me, and I nodded grimly. He turned away, and drew in his breath to shout the order.

I turned back to view the enemy, charging towards us. It was going to be close. The cavalry had separated from the footmen, spreading out across the field. I smiled in a sad way. Renly's pincer group, supposed to crush us completely, were not just going to be killed but had even manoeuvred in such a way that the gunpowder would affect the most amount of people.

Renly was truly screwed, and my smile turned into one of the pride of victory.

Even so, it was going to be tight. The massive battlehorses of Renly's forces were barely the width of a football field away, and were charging a lot faster than athletes.

As the horses got closer, they reached the string of bodies, littered about the ground where our armies had clashed. They made no attempt to avoid them, smashing straight through the broken corpses. I was shocked. Those were their own men, some of whom could still be alive.

Just as I thought it, a movement passed in front of me, in front of the charging cavalry. I looked closer, and saw a soldier sitting up, rubbing his head. From the amount of blood on the poor man, I couldn't see whose side he was on, but he certainly didn't deserve to die crushed by half a ton of premium horseflesh.

I shouted at him, telling him to "get out of the bloody way you fool". As I was speaking, he turned around, and I noticed the grey clothes, the sigil.

It was a Stark soldier.

That made it all the worse. That poor man was definitely on our side, and if he didn't move, he would die.

Luckily, he managed to stand up, and began to walk, then run, shakily, towards us.

He was…really small. And really thin, like the over-large dagger he was wearing.

And…why was he shrieking with such a high voice?

Then his grey, steely gaze caught mine, and I looked into the eyes of Arya Stark.

Then the arrows, carrying their small flames, flew through the air, lighting up the sky as they gently landed on mounds of gunpowder.


End file.
